


Ginny Weasley and the Demmy Slicer

by AlanBryce



Series: Ginny Weasley [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Battle of Hogwarts, Canon Compliant, Dementors, F/F, F/M, Giants, Goblins, Hogwarts Head Boys & Head Girls, Legilimency (Harry Potter), Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Minor Fleur Delacour/Bill Weasley, Multi, Patronus Charm (Harry Potter), Polyjuice Potion, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Pre-Epilogue, Quidditch, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 28
Words: 100,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24722617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlanBryce/pseuds/AlanBryce
Summary: This is Ginny Weasley's tale.  This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her.  Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex.  An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley, Ginny/Harry
Series: Ginny Weasley [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787485
Comments: 10
Kudos: 33





	1. The Battle

Harry Potter had never looked so handsome. Taller than ever, broad-shouldered, face chiselled. His startling green eyes gazed down into hers. His hands pulled her to him. He smelled wonderful, too. Definitely masculine, with soap.

And his voice… Deep and resonant. Firm, and sincere. “Voldemort can wait,” he was saying. “This is _our_ time now. Unless you’d rather…” he added, intently, looking down at her.

“No,” said Ginny Weasley. Although she didn’t really want words. Not now.

They were in a beautiful garden: Lawns of perfect green, flowers of every colour and scent. The dovecote and ever-cooing white doves seemed a little over the top, but maybe _he_ liked them.

“I didn’t realise how lucky I was,” he said.

Impatiently she reached up and pulled his head down towards hers. 

“Simple fact,” said a familiar voice, “If we don’t tell Mum and Dad, they’ll kill us.”

Ginny didn’t want those words either. She reached her lips up to Harry’s.

“Then we don’t let them find out!” said another voice, nearly identical to the first. “How many should we take? The whole box?”

Harry’s arms were crushing her now, satisfyingly, and she tried to close her mind to the words, the ones that didn’t belong.

“Whatever. Look, why don’t we just leave them a message?”

“Why don’t we just get out of here…! _Ginny_?” A wealth of amazement in that last word.

Ginny tried to ignore them. Harry’s mouth was on hers.

“Ginny, what are you doing here…?”

“Ginny! What are you _doing_?” 

Her arms were tight around Harry’s satisfyingly broad chest, but then it was softening, shrinking, disappearing… His lips were no longer claiming hers, and she could speak. And she was no longer in that perfect garden, but in a second-floor storeroom of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.

She spun round, angrily. “ _Get out of here_!” she shouted.

“This _is_ our shop,” pointed out George Weasley.

“ _And_ one of our daydreams,” added his twin Fred. A small empty bottle stood next to an open box on one of the shelves, and he picked it up and peered at it.

“So who were you snogging, then?” asked George, with interest.

“No-one!” snapped Ginny. “And it’s none of your business!”

“Technically,” said Fred. “It is. This _is_ our shop.”

“And _that’s_ our bottle,” pointed out George.

“ _Meet the boy or girl of your dreams_ ,” read Fred from the label. “ _And live your fantasy…_ So we can guess _who_ ,” he said to George.

“We just don’t know the details,” chimed in George. “Confession time, Sis.” 

“Except we don’t really have time,” Fred reminded his brother. 

“Fair point,” said George. “But we tell Ginny, though.”

“OK,” said Fred. “He’s...”

“Back,” said George.

“At Hogwarts,” added Fred. “We’re just off.”

“Who?” asked Ginny, still amidst her dwindling daydream. 

“Who, she says,” said George, shaking his head.

“Harry,” said Fred.

“Potter,” finished George. “Can we go now?”

“Harry Potter’s back at Hogwarts?” said Ginny, loudly. “What’s he doing there?”

“Good question,” said George. “Let’s go ask him, yeah?”

“No, wait! She’s too young!” protested Fred.

“Are _you_ going to stop her?” asked George.

“No,” said Fred, with decision. “You do it. I’m off to Hogwarts. Whoa!” The last word was pained, because Ginny was dragging at both of his ears.

“This isn’t one of your games, is it?” Ginny asked, tightening her grip.

“ _Ow_! No joke! Gerroff my ears!”

“Take me with you!” she said firmly.

“Like I’d leave my ears behind,” gasped Fred. “Let _go_!”

Then he was squawking loudly, because her hands were still clamped on his ears as he Apparated, and she was spinning around him.

Now she was in an entirely different room, this one dingy and untidy. 

“Here!” said a familiar voice next to her, only it couldn’t be. “There’ll be plenty of fighting, soon enough.” She let go of Fred’s ears and turned towards the speaker, but it wasn’t Dumbledore, it was a stranger, although he shared his eyes, his thinness, his long white beard. He jerked his head towards a doorway in one wall. “On you go,” he said. 

Except the door was a picture frame, hinged on one side. There were steps behind it, rising into a gloomy tunnel. 

George was trying to help her clamber into the hole, and she was fighting him off. She wasn’t a child. The tunnel was strangely airless, and smelt of… nothing at all. The stone under her feet was oddly smooth, yet she stumbled, as she hurried along the passageway. Was this really taking her to Harry?

And what was he doing at Hogwarts? Had he come to look for _her_? Or did he need Dumbledore’s Army? Her heart quickened. Would she fight at his side?

She could hear voices ahead of her, and then she was stepping down into a strange room, lined with bunk beds, the walls covered with banners. A dozen or more people were there, but _he_ was there as well. Harry Potter.

He was staring at her in amazement. In surprise, so he hadn’t been expecting her. He was saying something, and Fred behind her was replying.

He looked painfully thin, and battered. But it was him. Here too were Ron and Hermione, and Hermione was hugging her, distracting her. She would have to shout to be heard now, and she didn’t know what to say, and Harry’s presence was still confusing her. 

She saw Harry’s eyes widen, but he wasn’t gazing at her now, but at the tunnel entrance. At Cho Chang, looking older, more beautiful, more adult. She was smiling back at him, uncertainly, and he was blushing. 

Ginny felt such anger then. Wasn’t it over, between Harry and Cho?

It was clamorously noisy now, as new people arrived behind her, calling out, greeting old friends, swapping stories. Luna Lovegood, her concerned, protuberant eyes intent on Ginny, was talking to her, endlessly and pointlessly, about wrackspurts, her soft voice frequently drowned by Fred and George swapping jokes, loudly, right behind them. 

The room was suddenly quiet, and Harry was explaining, badly, why he was here. She felt numb now. Her gaze was locked on his face, struck by the changes these months had caused in him, but it was hard to concentrate on his words. She awoke fully only when Cho Chang stood, stepped forward, offering to help…

“No!” Her own voice now, audible at last. “Luna will take Harry,” she found herself saying. She turned to Luna in desperation. “Won’t you?” she pleaded. She wanted to include herself in the invitation, and didn’t know how.

Harry was nodding, agreeing, leaving. _I’m not afraid of Luna_ , Ginny told herself, as she watched them go. And she repeated those words as she waited endlessly for them to return. People – her parents, others - were speaking to her, but she couldn’t listen, couldn’t understand. 

At last she could hear voices, raised, and hurrying steps, and Harry was here, he was back.

But he was telling her to go home – everyone was telling her - _for your own safety_ , they were saying, and she was arguing, and losing the argument as usual, and then a sop was thrown to her. The meanest scrap: She’d be allowed to stay, as long as she stayed _here_ , in this room, on her own.

She was filled with anger then. Why only _her_? What had _she_ done to deserve this? There had to be plenty of underage pupils still in Hogwarts. This was about control, wasn’t it? Harry, controlling her, Harry deciding their relationship was over, Harry deciding she had to leave, for her _protection_ , when she didn’t need protecting. But it was OK to kiss her whenever he wanted, was it? 

She watched them go, with alarm, with frustration, with anger and fear.

 _I’ve earned better than this_ , she told herself. _I deserve to be considered as an equal._ Not as a second-class citizen, one who didn’t get to decide. She had her wand in her hand now, and she itched to use it, but there was nothing she could do, except wreck the room she was in, and _she_ wasn’t that petty, that immature.

She could hear voices now, along the tunnel. Had Death Eaters reached here already? She held up her wand, pointing it at the tunnel, but the group of half-a-dozen entered the room casually, talking amongst themselves. They wore identical cloaks. Aurors, she decided, even though several of them seemed too young, barely older than her. She brought down her wand, hiding it at her side, just in case.

“Where do we go?” one of them asked. He was in his early twenties, fresh-faced, with tow-coloured hair.

“Depends,” she said uncertainly, fingering her wand.

“Depends on what?” asked another – dark haired, beefy, but a similar age. 

“Whose side you’re on,” she said, stopping herself from taking a step backwards.

Some dry laughs. “We’re fighting You-Know-Who,” said the other. “Does that get us Stunned?” More laughter.

She wanted to shout at them, to argue, but it was easier to turn and point. “That door takes you onto the seventh-floor landing. Voldemort’s in the Forbidden Forest, last time I heard.”

“OK,” said the tow-haired one. “Just tell the others...”

“Others?” she asked, but they were already leaving, one of them clapping her on the shoulder as he went. One was a girl, she realised tardily, thin-faced and serious-looking.

She could feel where the hand had rested on her shoulder for some while afterwards. But this time when the silence was broken, the footsteps were coming from the castle: A group of young students, evacuees.

“Can we still get out?” asked someone. Ginny recognised her: a Hufflepuff girl, a third-year. 

“I think so,” said Ginny, pointing to the tunnel entrance. “There are still people coming in.”

The girl nodded – her face was white, her mouth twisted with fear – and she shepherded her companions into the tunnel. Their voices diminished, and then Ginny worried who they might meet, coming the other way.

Then a group of Ravenclaw evacuees, and then a group from the tunnel once more.

“Are we too late?” asked one of them, a girl in her twenties.

She shook her head, recognising the man behind her – Oliver Wood, her old Quidditch Captain. He gave her his crooked, mocking smile. “You’ve grown,” he said.

“Not enough,” she managed to say, stupidly, but then he stepped up to her, put an arm around her and kissed her, and her face was flaming. And she had no breath to argue when a total stranger – male, a similar age to Oliver – gave her a kiss as well.

“Forbidden Forest,” she said shakily when he’d let go. “Voldemort’s in the Forbidden Forest…”

And she was on her own again.

She lost count of the groups coming through the Room of Requirements – a steady trickle of fighters emerged from the tunnel, whom she directed onwards, while pupils were still fleeing the school. These were more frightened now, but they would only shake their heads in fear if she tried to question them, and they hurried to escape. A couple of times she could hear raised voices when groups encountered each other in the tunnel, but apart from warning the fleeing pupils there was nothing more she could do.

 _I hope I’m doing the right thing_ , she said to herself repeatedly. _Am I sending the reinforcements to their deaths? And are the evacuees finding safety, or are they running straight into the arms of Death Eaters?_ She tried to ask one of the fighters about the fleeing pupils, but he had no ears for questions. Some arrivals smiled at her, some looked terrified, some determined, the rest numb. A couple of groups were laughing and chattering – she remembered a group of young women particularly, who seemed to be treating this as an outing. Some fighters were middle aged or more, but mostly they were in their twenties. Many ignored her entirely, but some treated her like a kind of mascot, and Oliver and his friend weren’t the only people to kiss her, or hug her, each kiss or touch a message to an uncertain future.

One of the last to enter from the tunnel was Dumbledore’s lookalike. “Where is he?” he asked, but she could only shake her head. He didn’t stay – he merely gave her a baleful look and stumped through into the castle.

It grew very quiet then. It had to be midnight by now, surely? Her aching legs as well as her empty stomach told her it must be late now. But she couldn’t sit down, and she walked restlessly around the room, touching the bunks distractedly as she turned. She was full of fear, terrified about what had happened to everyone she knew, to everyone who had passed her in this room, while she was trapped here.

More steps from the tunnel… The first familiar face in a while: Tonks, terrified, and an elderly witch. 

Tonks gave her a quick hug. “What’s happening?” she asked, her voice unsteady.

“I don’t know,” admitted Ginny. “Lots of people coming to fight… and kids getting out of here. But it’s been quiet for a while. How’s the baby?”

“Where’s Remus?”

“I don’t know…” Then she heard steps behind her.

It was Harry, out of breath. He still didn’t look pleased to see her. Why not? What had she done? Ron and Hermione were close behind him, both exhausted, their hair wet and bedraggled. Was it raining?

“I need the room,” Harry panted. “You need to come out of here.”

“What’s happening?” she asked. “Is everyone OK?” Everyone was speaking at once.

“Where’s Remus?” asked Tonks. And the elderly witch was talking as well.

Harry was looking at Tonks, Ginny saw. Talking to her, recognising her. But then he turned to Ginny, and he was looking at her properly, and his hand came out to hers. “We need you to leave…” 

He pulled her from the room, and she was free, and she could breathe freely at last. And he’d spoken to her, acknowledged her, and suddenly she felt buoyant with relief. The castle was alive with sound – distant yells, thuds that shook the building. She had to be part of it. She let go of his hand, and ran down the stairs. She could hear him calling, but she didn’t turn. She had to leave him to do what he needed, while she was free, free to fight - for him, for her family, for everybody, against Voldemort.

The stairs were deserted. She heard a thundering crash, and the whole building shook. She felt a strange breeze on her right cheek. _What…?_ She followed the moving air, and to her horror found a huge hole in a wall, leading to darkness. Through it she could hear shouts, and see lights – fires, she realised. 

Suddenly there were voices behind her, and she turned in alarm. Three younger students were hurrying towards her.

“Are we too late?” asked one of them. They were Ravenclaw, she realised, one a couple of years younger than her, the others quite small.

“What are you doing here?” Ginny asked in alarm. “Shouldn’t you have left by now?”

“We got held up,” said the oldest, glaring at one of the others. “Can we leave the school? We need to get home…”

“You can’t,” said Ginny. Unless Harry was finished already. She really didn’t want to go back, but made herself return with them up the stairs to the seventh-floor landing. 

There was no sign of the door, of course. What should she say? What should she ask for?

 _We need to escape from the castle_ , she thought as she walked distractedly up and down. _We need to escape from the castle. We need to escape from the castle…_

Her feelings were mixed when nothing happened. She wouldn’t have to disturb Harry, but what about these three? Were they trapped here? Her eyes met theirs, and they read the uncertainty in hers.

“We need to get out of here!” cried the middle Ravenclaw. Her face was deathly pale and her eyes strange. Then she was running down the stairs, followed by the others. 

“Wait!” Ginny shouted after them. “It’s not safe…” She was running down the stairs after them, but they stayed ahead of her, all the way to the ground floor. They made for the Entrance Hall. “No!” she shouted, realising. “You can’t go out there!” 

But they ignored her. They were heaving the entrance doors apart, and they were slipping through the gap. “ _No_!” she shouted, uselessly, as she followed them. “Wait!” She could see three shapes running into the darkness. 

In the distance she could see flickering lights, and hear shouts from hundreds of throats. The lights were spells – red, blue, green, other colours. The red and blue were Stunning spells, but green predominated, and she realised with a shiver that these were _Avada Kedavra_. She could see now that the spells formed a line: A battlefront between the two warring sides, and one side were using Stunning spells, and the other killing curses. It was a hypnotic sight, as the whole sky flickered. 

As she watched, she realised the red and blue lights were dying out, and the green grew ever brighter. Were the Death Eaters winning? Or were their opponents, driven and desperate, using killing curses as well? There had to be many dead out there now.

Suddenly she saw a group of fighters running towards her, yelling as they ran. Death Eaters! And the castle door was wide open! She aimed two Stunning spells at them, then turned and sprinted back to the doors. The Ravenclaws would have to fend for themselves.

She was at the doors now, breathless, heaving at one door, which thundered as it closed, and she darted across the gap to close the other one, flinching as a spell flew over her head. She slammed her shoulder into the door. It was so heavy, and was barely moving. The yells were so close now, as she aimed spell after spell through the gap with her free hand.

The door boomed shut, and she expected it to spring open as the Death Eaters hammered into it, but to her amazement one of the huge bolts slid across of its own accord, and then another, and another.

She could still hear shouting outside, and thuds as they attacked the door. Then a rocking crash, and the doors shook. That had to be a Giant. Another crash. How long would the doors last? She ran for the stairs. If she could find a window, she could at least distract the Giant. What spells worked best on Giants? Would any spell she knew be any use?

There was no window on this floor. Up another flight of stairs…

She tripped over a body, and then saw a pair of figures silhouetted against a window. There were other bodies scattered around them. Through the opening she could see something huge, and the two figures dodged back as a huge fist crashed into the window. The glass was already gone, but now the stone mullions shattered under the blow. Something made her bring up her wand, and she was yelling a curse that hit the bunched fingers. There was an angry roar, and the hand was snatched back, only to smash once more into the window. She aimed another curse at the fist, but this time another spell hit the same spot – the other two defenders were sending curses too – and the Giant roared, turned, and ran. There were humans screams now from outside, as the Giant trampled several figures in its flight.

Ginny wrapped one arm around the remains of the mullion, leaned out and looked downwards. There were still Death Eaters below her, trying to break down the door. She aimed a series of Stunning spells at them, and had the satisfaction of seeing one of them fall before she had to dodge back, to evade the spells coming in the other direction. 

Someone was grabbing her arm and yelling in her ear, but she couldn’t hear the words in the confusion, and she fought free of him. She was back at the window, aiming her wand, when a red line of light shot past her, and a figure beside her was twisting and falling.

She was still firing countless Stunning spells at the attackers when someone suddenly pushed her downwards. The corridor lit up as a fusillade of spells shot past them, and she realised her rescuer was Seamus Finnegan. Seamus was yelling something, but she ignored him so she could attack the remaining Death Eaters. 

It was suddenly quiet, and she could hear what Seamus was shouting. “… get on your wrong side!” he was saying, but he was grinning at her. 

His face changed abruptly when a disembodied voice filled their ears. 

“You have fought bravely and well…” The voice of Voldemort. The castle was silent now, apart from his words. She didn’t want to hear them, and she turned away, but they followed her even when she ran down the stairs.

“… tend to your injured…”

 _Is Harry injured? Or worse?_ She was calling out his name, and puzzled heads were turning towards her, but no-one answered.

Another thought distracted her then: _Where are the fleeing Ravenclaws?_ She needed to know what had happened to them. She was at the bolted entrance doors, but here too was Madam Pomfrey, muttering a spell, and the doors were opening once more. She was hurrying down the steps, which were littered with figures. Death Eaters. 

Even this far from the battlefield, there were motionless figures sprawled everywhere. She ran from figure to figure, recognising no-one; these were all adults: Death Eaters, Aurors and others. But no children. They must be safe…

Her heart turned to lead when she saw a small group sprawled on the ground, close to the Forbidden Forest, away from the others. She made herself keep walking towards them, even when she saw how little the figures were. Two of them weren’t moving, and when she approached them, and made herself touch them, she knew they would never move again. The third, the oldest, was sprawled strangely on the ground, but she was still alive, her head moving restlessly, and she was muttering. Ginny’s wand was in her hand still, but when she used _Wingardium Leviosa_ the injured girl cried out with such pain that Ginny lowered her to the ground in fright. 

She knelt beside the girl, who was babbling incoherently. “It’s all right,” she found herself saying. “It’s OK. Madam Pomfrey’s coming…” But she could do nothing for the girl, except listen to her nonsense, and tell her nonsense in return.

Madam Pomfrey came eventually, and lifted the broken body, but this time the girl was silent. Ginny couldn’t move then, and she welcomed the quiet, and the cold, and even the loneliness, and it was an age later that she pushed herself to her feet and headed back to the castle.

Her steps were leaden. If Harry was still alive, wouldn’t he have tried to find _her_?

Perhaps he was alive, but he no longer cared about her. That would be better, wouldn’t it? Better than his being dead.

There were pounding steps now, to her right. Those had to be Giants, she realised, but she was too drained to run from them. And was that _Hagrid_? Behind him was a smaller, stick-thin figure who dominated the others, as they marched towards the castle. Voldemort and his Death Eaters, she realised. Come to claim their victory. She brought up her wand, full of anger and hatred.

Only then did she see the little figure that Hagrid was carrying, and she didn’t need to see the glasses to recognise him. She was screaming Harry’s name, while Voldemort shouted his exultation, and laughed. Her eyes were fixed on the drooping body, and she was running towards Voldemort, with nothing but retribution and her own death in her mind, when something large thudded into her, and she hit the ground painfully, her lungs paralysed. When she looked up, she could see Neville Longbottom, taking her place, robbing her of her remaining purpose, and she watched him smashed to the ground in his turn.

“No…” she tried to say, as her breath returned. She saw Neville stand, and become a pillar of flame, and then there were running figures everywhere, and somehow the battle wasn’t lost, and somehow Harry wasn’t dead. He’d tricked everybody, he’d been dead and now he was alive, he’d tricked _her_ , and she was like an Inferi now, numb yet desperate, full of unfocused anger, because nothing meant anything, nothing made sense any more.


	2. The Giant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

There was no-one left for Ginny to fight, now. She sat motionless, frozen, surrounded by victory, but she could only taste the bitterest defeat.

None of the magic spells soaking the fabric of the Great Hall could deaden the noises of celebration, even while her hand on her mother’s arm transmitted the sobs for her lost son, Ginny’s dead brother, George’s silenced twin. Ginny discovered she had blotted out her dead sibling’s name. She could remember, of course, if she’d wanted to, but…

Her gaze was fixed across the room, at a crowd of noisy seventh-years – Dean Thomas was one of them, and there were a dozen others – but she knew they hid Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the one _she’d_ chosen, but who had now forgotten her. He’d been dead, and he’d returned to life, and perhaps that was part of the reason. But when she’d reached him, as soon as Voldemort was dead, he’d looked at her, his hand had come out to touch her, but then all the others had reached out to him too – Neville Longbottom, covered in blood, Luna Lovegood, her once-childish features now a strange haggardness, endless other incredulous faces and reaching hands. He’d forgotten her then, and the maelstrom had left her, a single broken tree after the hurricane, her words of love still on her lips.

The noise was becoming unbearable now. Next to her, his arm pressing into hers, sat Professor Slughorn. He’d always liked her – paid her exquisite attention, courted her, almost - but he was ignoring her now, talking loudly and endlessly to Professor Sprout, who to do her justice looked as tired as Ginny felt, and barely capable of taking in his words.

“I taught him, you know. Excellent choice. Safe pair of hands…” Slughorn, already sated with Harry’s reflected glory, was now moving on to laud Kingsley Shacklebolt, of all people. “A man of peace… He’ll be a remarkable Minister of Magic, believe me…”

There was a bitter taste in her mouth. People called Shacklebolt wise, but weren’t they confusing benevolence with brains, gravity with thought, lack of imagination with singleness of purpose? _You don’t need to_ like _a leader_ , she wanted to tell everyone. _You just have to trust them to do what’s necessary._ Not to weaken when it gets tough, or pay heed to the ever-open mouths of spouting criticism. _We need a strong leader now_ , she told them _._ Yes, the Dark Lord is dead, but his venom still lives in many hearts. And there are still plenty in the Ministry of Magic who had been part of the Muggle-born persecutions, barely a year ago. Had everyone forgotten? 

There was plenty of evil left in the world, even with Voldemort gone.

On the other side of her, further away, she could still hear George’s voice. Quiet, calm: No, I’m fine thank you. No, it’s OK. Don’t worry about me. Is all your family OK? Good, I’m glad. Yes. Yes, I’ll miss him.

_You’re not George any more_ , she wanted to shout at him. _Have I lost two brothers, now?_ She had to get out, she decided. She pushed her way past Slughorn, left her family behind and made for the Entrance Hall.

Another loud voice: Anthony Goldstein, his face red and wet with tears, being supported by a Beauxbaton girl Ginny didn’t know, who caught her eye and gave her a worried look. Tony was so tall now – when had he grown? – and dwarfed the Beauxbaton pupil. He had his arm slung across her shoulders, but seemed not to notice her, or anybody. He was babbling incomprehensibly, almost in tears. “It’s not a law, see? People talk about… about Gamp’s _Law_ , but it’s not. You don’t _need_ it. It’s just a rule. Just change the rules…” He was sobbing as he rambled. “Have you seen my _Cakementi_ spell…?”

The girl was pulling him outside, Tony reeling as he babbled, and cried.

No-one was looking at Ginny now – not a single pair of eyes – yet she couldn’t stay. Her loss, her pride - yes, her anger – drove her steps, and she found herself in the side-chamber, where all that was left of Voldemort lay, a discarded casing, an empty statement, his strangely-splayed fingers on his chest. And somehow seeing him was a comfort, because she could still feel hatred for that curdled evil, which had destroyed so many, had killed George’s twin and shattered her family.

And kept her from Harry. The anger she felt as she studied that cruel, slack mouth, those slitted nostrils, echoed another anger from the past, when Harry had told her bluntly that it was over, with some lame excuse that he wanted to _protect_ her. And then he’d left, with Hermione and Ron. Did he think she was stupid? _Ron_? She loved her brother, but she was starkly aware of his limitations, his fickle emotions, his oafish self-indulgence. His cowardice, bluntly, when Harry needed all the courage he could find. Hermione, yes, brave, and clever and resourceful, but never a fighter, surely? 

_Haven’t I proved myself?_ Ginny demanded silently, in boiling frustration. _I’ve shown my courage, time and time again. I’ve shown that I’m a warrior. I’ve been closer to Voldemort that any living being, except Harry, and I survived, untouched. Aren’t I the proper companion for a hero, someone willing to sacrifice herself, for him, for the cause he was fighting for?_

After the battle, she’d seen Ron and Hermione, arms around each other, break apart and stare into nothing, and leave the Great Hall together. _Of all the things I love about Harry_ , she told herself, _none of them are about subtlety, or a serpentine nature._ Of course he’d hidden under his Invisibility Cloak, and chosen them to escape with him.

But he hadn’t chosen her.

Her wand was in her hand now. It had always been a comfort, in the past. Holly and dragon’s heartstring. _Strange bedfellows_ , Ollivander had told her, sententiously, when her touch had first awoken the wand, but she’d decided long ago that the shrivelled old man was a showman at heart, so it probably meant nothing. But for her wand to share the same wood as Harry Potter’s had always seemed an omen, a portent.

Something that meant as little as Ollivander’s sales pitch now. 

When she left, Voldemort’s shell had a new scar, painted across his face and chest _. Let them wonder_ , she told herself as she lurched dizzily from the room, and outside. 

The morning air was fresh, despite the lingering smoke, and chilling. She could hear voices to her right, and instinctively turned away, downhill, towards the pile of ash that had been Hagrid’s hut. _The medievals understood_ , she told herself as she walked. However despicable someone’s acts, modern fashion says, whatever suffering they’ve caused others, the dead should be treated with respect _. No. Even after death, you can still punish. You can still take revenge, by taking away the dignity the dead leave behind. The only thing they have left. Because the truly guilty don’t deserve anything._

One of the huge trees – An oak? Trees had never been of interest to Ginny – had tumbled here, yet another victim of the battle, and Ginny’s wand was still between her fingers. The tree burst into flame - with a sound like a cry at the injustice of her act – and her skin was scorched, but she made herself walk its length, and only regretted her deed when she could no longer feel the heat behind her. 

Something hit her face, and she flinched. Then another. Rain. The sky was darkening once more. _The brief day is over_ , she told everyone who wasn’t listening. What time was it? Her body was coming to her rescue now, weighing her with tiredness, stirring her with hunger, its clamouring voices drowning her thoughts. She was close to the edge of the grounds now, and she could see a rent in the wall - Giant-sized, Giant-shaped - to her left. She headed towards it, and readied herself to Apparate as soon as she was outside the grounds. 

_I have Decision_ , she told herself, leadenly. _I have Determination. All I lack is Destination._

There was blood here, huge quantities of it, splashed across the breached wall. The wind caught her as she climbed through the gap. _How typical_ , she thought, _that Magic Folk shield themselves even from the elements, and live their lives in cushioned unreality._

There was a huge shape beyond the wall, sprawled across the ground, and crows were flocking above it, intent on the fallen, revolting her. Only they weren’t crows. She’d been misled by the size of the unmoving figure. No, the dark shapes were Dementors, black and hooded, and they were swarming around the fallen Giant, feeding like carrion. Her revulsion turned to anger, and her wand was still in her hand. 

“ _Expecto Patronum_!” she screamed, but her wand only sparked briefly, and the Dementors didn’t flinch, and the cold was reaching into her bones. _Love, not anger_ , she told herself. She made herself think of that perfect summer, with Harry, and she tried again, but only wisps of white appeared. No… She forced herself to remember when Harry had rescued her from the brink of death, years ago, and Fawkes the phoenix had saved him.

“ _Expecto Patronum_!” This time, her silvery fox burst from her wand, and leapt at the circling Dementors. This time they swirled and dodged, but there were too many of them, and her soaring Patronus could only drive away a few at a time. Soon they were back, feeding on the dying Giant - and her Patronus hesitated, shrank and disappeared.

Frustration as well as anger drove her, even a fleeting desire to end her own life. With a yell, she was running towards them, vaulting onto the fallen Giant, stepping along the huge thigh, up the abdomen towards the feasting crowd around the massive head. The bitter cold was eating into her, and the Dementors were scattering in surprise. But it still wasn’t enough, and they were returning, and spinning around her head instead, freezing her, numbing her. One darted at her face, and she recoiled and fell backwards, landing heavily on the Giant. The Dementors’ hoods were down now, and their hateful eyeless grey faces were turned towards her. All the warmth of her exertion and anger was gone, and she could feel the icy aura of the Dementors all around her. 

The largest was right above her now, and its mouth was opening. _It doesn’t matter_ , something inside her said, _I’ve seen victory, and defeat, and love, and now I’m done_. The Giant was dying too: Next to her head, the Giant’s great fist held a huge dagger, but the fingers, each nearly the width of her forearm, were sagging open. The Dementor’s cold, dry scaly hand clawed at her neck, its mouth so close to hers, and she could feel other claws on her arms. The smell of the Giant’s blood was dizzyingly strong now. 

A tangible weapon was no defence against Dementors, she knew that, but as the dagger rolled out of the Giant’s grip, anger and desperation made her stretch out and catch it. Before she could stab at her attacker, though, the Dementor was recoiling, and was no longer silent. A low-pitched sound – a beating, a thudding – was all around her, assaulting her ears, and the other Dementors were retreating too. Then warmth returned, suddenly. There was no sunlight – the clouds above were still thick and grey, and she felt rain on her once more - but the drops seemed as warm as blood.

She was lying on the Giant still, her chest heaving. She twisted to look around, in renewed panic, but there was no sign of the Dementors now. Guiltily, she scrambled off and turned to look at the huge face. 

She was too late. The Giant was still breathing, but somehow she knew this wasn’t life, but soullessness: A strange, mindless twitching, over and over. She stepped back, instinctively, in revulsion. Her jeans and jumper were soaked in blood and spattered with mud. The slope below the Giant was stained vivid red, and a stream of blood was coursing down the hill into a small moorland pool, the stain spreading as she watched. She hoped the Giant would die soon: Death would be preferable to this twitching non-life.

She was still holding the dagger. It was strangely made – long-handled, with a white, curved blade. She swapped it to her other hand and pulled out her wand. Spinning it towards herself, she muttered “ _Tergeo_ ”, but something in Giant blood resisted the spell, and only the mud vanished. The rain was falling in her eyes, and she felt very weary now. _Scourgify_ worked no better. 

The blade of the dagger was animal horn, she decided - ivory perhaps, or even bone - but the hilt was fashioned of gold studded with deep red gems. Were they rubies? The Sword of Gryffindor had a similar hilt, she remembered, only more elaborate. The point, with an effort, went through one of the belt loops of her jeans, but the blade became too wide for the hilt to rest at her waist. Still, it seemed to sit there well enough. 

The wind was stronger now, beating the rain into her eyes. She tried to Apparate, but for some reason – tiredness, probably, or lack of resolve – that didn’t work. If she turned right and kept walking, she decided, along the boundary of Hogwarts, she would reach Hogsmeade, and shelter.


	3. The Defeated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

Ginny hoped that the rain would wash out the Giant’s blood, but although her clothes were soaked by the time she reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade, they were still stained a vivid red. Something told her she would be unwelcome at the Three Broomsticks in this condition, so she turned her steps towards the Hog’s Head.

Even the Hog’s Head was crowded, and a wash of sound hit her ears as she pushed the door open, but then there was silence. Someone she didn’t know – a small human or a large dwarf, shrouded in a hood – wordlessly served her Butterbeer, but wouldn’t let her pay, for some reason. She muttered her thanks, but something rebelled in her against having to make polite and grateful conversation, and she turned away, looking for a table. 

A sea of eyes met her. For such a large crowd they were surprisingly quiet. Few were human – there were Goblins here, Hags, Dwarves. Some were studying her bloodstained clothing, some the dagger hanging at her side. A head of white-blond caught her attention. Its owner was slouched across a little table, alone, chin in one hand, while his other hand was curved round an empty glass. Deciding that any familiar face was better than an unknown one, she crossed the room, ignoring the other eyes, and sat next to the hunched figure. His eyes were open, staring at his glass of Firewhisky, but he didn’t visibly react to her presence.

“Cheers,” she said, and drank. The warmth flooded through her, and she became conscious of the chill of her soaked clothes. Her wand seemed to be stuck in her pocket, and it was a struggle to extract it, but a silent spell dried her clothes instantly. The rivulets of water dripping into her eyes disappeared, although the bloodstains remained.

He didn’t look up, or speak, but she decided she didn’t need conversation. She took another drink of her Butterbeer. She realised she was hungry, but she remembered George telling her once that they only served smoked owl talons at the Hog’s Head, and this didn’t seem the time to find out whether that was true. She drained her glass, wiped the drips inelegantly from her mouth with her arm, and stood. She pulled the glass from his hand and carried both glasses back to the bar. 

“Two Firewhiskys,” she said. The hooded barman studied her, then the slumped figure behind her, but eventually shrugged and poured two drinks. She tried thrusting a handful of Sickles at him, but again he shook his head. She carried the drinks across to the table, and sat, more heavily than she expected. Tiredness, she told herself. And no food for how long?

She pushed one glass into the circle of her companion’s hand, and was sufficiently tired to find this amusing. There were murmurs around her now. Had they really been silent all this time? She picked up her glass and drank, and managed not to cough or exclaim at the burning in her mouth and throat. For want of something better to do she kept drinking, until it was gone. 

To her surprise she saw that the other glass of Firewhisky was empty as well.

“Same again, Draco?” she asked. Her mouth felt strange. And everything felt strange when she stood, and her head spun. It was an effort to navigate to the bar. 

She’d forgotten the empty glasses, she realised. “Same again,” she said. The hooded figure merely shook his head. “I said,” she said loudly and carefully, “I said, the same again.”

The figure stepped around the bar. Despite his small size, his grip on her arm was hard to fight off, and she found herself steered towards the doorway, the door was opening in front of her, and she was being pushed out into the street. It was still raining, fewer drops but harder. 

The door behind her opened once more and Draco Malfoy was pushed out to stand beside her. She turned and tried to push her way past the hooded figure, back into the Hog’s Head, but he was surprisingly strong, and the door closed again. 

She wanted to beat on the door then, to kick it, to open the door once more and argue, but Malfoy fell heavily against her, and she had to put her hands out to stop him tumbling her over. He was surprisingly thin. Taller than Harry, but without his breadth, and he reeked of Firewhisky. 

“Get off me,” she said, annoyed, but he didn’t react except to push his arm over her shoulders and lean against her. She staggered, and somehow they were walking down the alley towards the main street, sagging left when they reached the corner, because Malfoy’s weight on her right pushed her in that direction. And she grew ever wetter.

She realised he was crying. She’d never hated Malfoy in the way Harry had, which was strange when she was generally more partisan than he. But Draco had always ignored her, and she’d been happy to ignore him, despising him, mostly, for letting himself be dominated by his awful father, by Voldemort, and the others. Harry had seen evil in Malfoy, where she’d only found weakness. But she didn’t have the energy to support him and tell him to shut up, so she concentrated on keeping him moving.

She didn’t know why she didn’t just let go of him, let him slide onto the cobbles and leave. Because it meant she could feel superior to him, perhaps. Or simply because it gave her something to do. An agenda, to replace a life which was now without purpose, or meaning.

Malfoy was still walking, steering while she supported him, and they were heading out of the village now, away from Hogwarts. She resisted then, dragging him to a stop.

“Where are we going?” she demanded. She realised how ridiculous this was, supporting a lifelong enemy, walking nowhere, in the rain. He muttered something, and tried to step, but without her cooperation he was twisting around into her, smothering her, his other arm coming around to claw at her. Then they were both twisting, and his grip around her shoulders became compression and vertigo. The rain-swept countryside vanished, and they were standing on dry neat gravel, under a lightly-clouded sky, between a maze of dwarf hedges and a small castle - or a large house - grey-stoned, with circular pointed turrets. He lurched, leading her towards the door, which was broad and aged, with massive black hinges. She baulked once more.

“Are your parents here?” she asked.

He shook his head, emphatically.

“So who…?” 

He reached out, unsteadily, and pressed his hand against the door. It swung open, and they staggered across the threshold. They were in an oak-panelled corridor, which opened into a large hall. In the dim light of the lofty skylights, far above, she could see galleries surrounding the room, a wide staircase leading to them at the far end, and in front of that a huge dark shape. The door swung shut and the house was silent. “Isn’t there anybody here?” she asked.

He was sliding down her now, aiming, nearly, for a carved wooden chair against the panelling, and she helped him collapse into it.

The walk, or the Apparating, perhaps, seemed to have exhausted Malfoy, and she could no longer rouse him. She left him slumped on the seat and stepped forward to examine the unnerving shape dominating the centre of the hall. As she approached it, sconces lining the walls flared alight, and she could see that the mass was an enormous stone-coloured rhinoceros. It didn’t move as the lights came on, and its stare was a dull gleam. But it was real, she decided. Stuffed, presumably. A hunting trophy?

She walked around it, opening the doors lining the hall, and as she did so the lights in each room flared into life, but everywhere was deserted. 

Every wall of every room, it seemed, was covered with hunting trophies, each bearing a head – deer, many of them, bears and wolves and tigers and leopards, but also a Troll and a Hippogriff. More disturbingly, one room contained the heads of several Goblins, Dwarves and Elves. There were endless glass display cases, containing glassy-eyed birds – grouse, pheasants, partridges and a large dusty red-feathered something that she suspected was a Phoenix. There were paintings, too, amongst the heads: One, dominating the main hall, showed a horse standing on grass, glancing at her sidelong, ears pricked, but as she turned away, out of the corner of her eye, she could see its head drop to graze.

There were fewer heads upstairs, but plenty of rooms containing huge, high beds. One of the rooms was an old-fashioned bathroom, lined with smooth red brick, or polished stone. In the centre was a sunken bath, almost a swimming pool, with steps descending into it. She caught sight of herself in a mirror there, and could see why she’d been unwelcome at the Hog’s Head. She avoided her own eyes, but her face was smeared with blood and her clothes were a mess. Her hair was a tangle, almost black under the Giant’s blood. 

But the house seemed truly empty. She went back onto the gallery and down a few steps, and she could see Malfoy still asleep on the hall chair. That was enough to decide her: She returned to the bathroom and had to use a sticking charm on the door, because there was no lock. Four tall gold taps stood at one end of the bath, and there was a statue of a house-elf, also in gold, bearing a tray, standing beside it. The taps roared like animals when she turned them on. One of the other taps produced a blue liquid she couldn’t recognise, and one nothing at all, but the remaining two gave hot and cold water. She peeled off her filthy clothes before walking down the steps to kick down the plug, a disk a foot in diameter. 

The gold elf’s tray held some ancient-looking bottles. On investigation, their contents smelled vaguely soap-like, and she recklessly sampled each of them. One of them, rose-pink in colour, yet smelling of pine, disturbingly turned the dried Giant’s blood green, but then the blood was flowing again, and she could remove it, even from her hair. She fetched her clothes and used most of the rest of the little bottle on them, feeling guilty, but the deep red stain remained. She managed to unsticky the dagger, though.

The bath was deep enough to swim in, and she took a few strokes. She remembered a similar bath in the Prefects’ Bathroom at Hogwarts, when Harry had sneaked her in there, and found herself smiling at the memory of his disgruntled expression when he found she was wearing a one-piece swimsuit under her robes. He had sworn the room would be empty; Technically, it was, but she had been extra-glad of her swimsuit - and of evading his embraces – when Moaning Myrtle had turned up, and defied Harry’s attempts to evict her.

She turned over and floated, examining the ceiling. It was enchanted, showing an unnaturally starry sky, where the constellations were somehow true animals: dragons, lions and a mermaid looked down on her. Her eyes were drooping now - she could have easily fallen asleep - and she had to make herself swim over to the steps and climb out. She used her wand to dry herself and untangle her hair, which felt better, but when she dried her clothes they were still blood-soaked, and smelled of the Giant’s blood. She dropped them on the floor. _Now what?_ She unstuck the door, and cracked it open. There was no sign of Malfoy. Nervously, she tiptoed over to the top of the stairs, and stuck her head over the banister. She glimpsed him, still asleep on the chair. Her heart was still beating erratically as she explored the other rooms, listening for the slightest sound. Where would she hide, if he came upstairs suddenly?

At last she found what she was looking for: A wardrobe full of clothes. Only they were men’s. She kept looking, and was rewarded by a smaller wardrobe containing women’s clothing. Except that nothing fitted her: Everything was either too long, or too wide, or both. 

_Any second now_ , she told herself, _Malfoy is going to catch me like this_. She readied a _Conjunctivitis_ spell, just in case. Half a dozen bedrooms later she found another wardrobe, containing smaller clothes. They were all black, and most of them were still too long for her, and too elderly in style – evening dresses, mostly, with glittering jewels sewn into them. Some trousers, also too long. But then a shorter dress, which she held up against herself, dubiously. It seemed almost the right size. 

The black material was clingy and insubstantial when she put it on, the dress strange: It was knee-length, barely, and had long slashed sleeves with material drooping from her wrists, bare-shouldered yet shirt-buttoned. She retrieved her trainers from the bathroom. The dress probably looked strange with trainers, and no socks, but she was out of choices. There was a wand pocket at her waist, and she slipped her wand into it. There was even room for the dagger as well. There was a mirror in the room, and she inspected herself, dubiously. 

She’d seen Bellatrix Lestrange wearing something similar, she remembered, but couldn’t make herself care, somehow. The dress hugged her figure and looked good, with her red hair on bare shoulders. 

She felt hungrier now, but decided to try the bed in the huge room next door, just for a few minutes. She had to take the dagger out of her pocket, because it was uncomfortable to lie on…

She awoke suddenly. It was full daylight, and the room was overheated. There was a figure in the doorway, staring at her, unmoving. Draco Malfoy.

Reflexively she looked down at herself, but she was fully dressed, sprawled across the top of the bed. She must have slept through the night. Malfoy looked better, too, his hair neat once more, his skin pale but normal, his eyes less glassy, less strained.

“There’s a Goblin outside,” he said, eventually. His voice was strange, hoarse and cracked. 

“What does he want?”

Malfoy stepped, catlike, to the side of the bed and looked down at her. “You,” he said. He ducked briefly and he was holding the dagger. “And this.”

Without thought she launched herself at him. He was caught by surprise and staggered backwards, and he had barely hit the floor when she had twisted the dagger out of his grip and was kneeling over him, the blade at his throat.

His chest was heaving, and there was anger in his eyes, but something else too. Resignation, perhaps. “My,” he said. “You’re a twitchy little fox, aren’t you?”

She ignored that. “Where’s this Goblin?” she asked. She was still holding the dagger to his eyes, and made herself lower the blade. He flicked his head in the direction of the window, and she stood, carefully, the dagger still ready in her hand. But Malfoy didn’t try getting up, so she stepped over him towards the window. She could see the gravel they’d arrived on below her, and the Goblin standing there. He was staring at the house, his eyes searching the windows, and soon he noticed her. He glared at her. His clothes weren’t as neat and formal as a Gringotts Goblin’s, and his stare was filled with aggression.

Malfoy stepped up to her, unnerving her, but he merely opened the old-fashioned casement window and backed away. He looked more confident now, that mocking look of his in place once more.

She looked down at the Goblin. “What do you want?” she called.

The Goblin’s eyes studied her, and he was silent at first. “The dagger you stole,” he said eventually.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Bragrak,” he said. “The dagger was Gisull’s. Did you kill her for it?”

Her? A female Giant? She’d had no clue of that. “No,” she said. “Her soul had gone when I reached her.”

“So you stole from her?” said Bragrak. “Is that what humans do, now?”

“I had to defend myself,” she shot back, annoyed. “And why do you care?”

“The dagger is Goblin-made,” he said. “It should be returned to its rightful owner.”

“She’s dead,” Ginny replied.

The Goblin shook his head. “The Goblin who made it,” he said. 

There was movement beside her, and she twitched once more. Malfoy was close to her again, and called down to the Goblin. “So it’s not yours either,” he said.

“Mine?” the Goblin asked. “No. But I will return it to its rightful owner. Give it to me.”

“Why?” asked Malfoy.

“Because your lives depend on it,” said Bragrak.

“Our lives?” asked Ginny, irritated at being sidelined by Malfoy.

“If you do not hand the dagger to me, I will tell the Giants. And they will not negotiate.”

“And if we kill you now?” asked Ginny, angrily. Malfoy put his hand on her arm, but she shook him off and stepped away from him.

Bragrak glared at her. “This is no longer the past. We have our own protection, now.”

She dragged her wand out of her pocket and held it up. “Against this, do you mean?” she asked angrily. Malfoy muttered something in her ear, but she ignored that as well.

“You have a wand,” said the Goblin. “But you lack sense. Negotiate with me, and you can keep your lives. If I walk away, the Giants will kill you and reclaim what they seek.”

He turned away then, and stepped slowly away. But when he reached the edge of the gravel, he swung back towards them, waited hopefully, then angrily disappeared into the trees.

“Do you _want_ to die?” asked Malfoy angrily in her ear. She swung towards him in annoyance, and the wand close to his eyes made him step back. His skin was still pale, but there were livid patches on his cheekbones. “Give it to him! You don’t need it!”

“No,” she said. “I’m keeping it.”

“ _Why_?” he shouted. “A _Giant’s dagger_?”

 _This is the enemy_ , she reminded herself. “I’m not giving it up,” she said. This weapon had terrified the Dementors; Surely she shouldn’t surrender it.

“Then leave!” he shot back. “Let them kill you if you want. But not here!”

“He’s bluffing,” she said. “A Goblin, friends with Giants? Is there any food here?”

He looked at her in disgust. “Food?”

“Food,” she said. “I’m hungry.”

“You have to leave…”

“No,” she repeated. “I need to eat, first.”

A succession of expressions crossed his face. Anger, fear, and puzzlement. Then exasperation. “Downstairs,” he said eventually. Then there was a gleam in his eyes. What did that mean? “Can you cook?”


	4. The Trophies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

The kitchen wasn’t designed for human use. It was low-ceilinged – she had to stoop to enter the door, small as she was - and the equipment was alien, misshapen. A row of kitchen knives had such short handles she could barely grip them.

“No house-elf?” she asked, needling Malfoy. Had this been Dobby’s little kingdom?

He shook his head, annoyed. He was crouching in the doorway as she inspected the equipment in the room.

“Dobby was yours, wasn’t he?” she asked. “Until Harry helped him escape you.”

“And helped him die,” said Malfoy.

“Don’t tell me you care,” she scoffed.

“This world worked before people like you came along,” he said. “And wrecked it.”

“Voldemort ruined it for everyone. Remember?”

“A strong leader kills fewer than a weak one,” said Malfoy. His eyes were glittering now.

Her wand was in her hand again, and she was in front of him, the wand in front of his eyes. “If I kill you now,” she said angrily, “does that make me weak or strong?” She enjoyed the fright she saw in his expression. 

“You said you were hungry,” he said eventually. “So eat. Then get out of here.” He reached into the room and opened a wide door of black riveted metal. Inside she could see shelves with wicker baskets, and hanging joints of meat. She gestured warningly with her wand, and he stepped back further, allowing her to step into the larder. She kept her wand pointed at him, threateningly, but he didn’t move, and she could see the baskets contained vegetables – potatoes, cabbage, carrots, beans, pale and dark. She used one hand to pick up a handful and dump them onto a low work surface next to the larder, then lifted the smallest joint of meat – still large enough to feed half a dozen, she judged – off its hook. 

Malfoy remained in the doorway while she prepared the food and cooked it, and, even when she turned her back on him, he didn’t try to attack her. _Perhaps he won’t_ , she decided, _until he’s eaten_. It occurred to her that his expression was mostly hunger. In her inexperience with the elf kitchen, the meat was overcooked, the potatoes hard, and there wasn’t enough sauce. But when she found a couple of plates – gold-rimmed with a large crest in the middle – and heaped food onto them, he led her hurriedly to the great dining room and sat rapidly in one of the chairs along the side of the long glossy black dining table. As soon as the plate was in front of him, he was picking at the meat with his fingers, dropping it repeatedly when he burnt himself, and stuffing it into his mouth.

“Knives?” she asked, acidly. “Forks?”

He merely gestured to a great sideboard – also black – along one wall, and continued to stuff food into his mouth. She managed to maintain the moral ascendency when she found some gold-like knives and forks in a drawer and tossed some down in front of him, but then found herself eating as hurriedly as he. She only registered she had a headache when the pain diminished as she ate. She studied him as she finished her plateful, and was then on her feet again, returning to the kitchen to reload her plate, and he copied her.

“Where’s your wand?” she asked when she had finished. Her wand lay on the table next to her, and her fingers brushed it in case he produced one in a hurry.

“Potter has it,” he said, his mouth full. He didn’t meet her eyes.

This puzzled her. “You had a wand yesterday…” she began.

He talked over her, loudly. “My mother’s.” But then he was silent once more.

“And she wanted it back?” she ventured, eventually. He kept his eyes on his plate, and didn’t answer. 

The sun was cautiously poking its way through the clouds, painting bars of light on the stone floors, but that merely emphasised the gloominess of the rooms, the creepiness of the dead animals. As soon as she’d eaten, Ginny decided she needed to be outside, in the fresh air. She felt better when she’d cracked open the front door and the fresh breath of a breeze was on her face.

No Giants.

 _I should go home_ , she told herself, but that made her feel as claustrophobic as being in the house here. _What’s wrong with me?_

In front of her was the sweep of gravel, and beyond that the miniature hedges, with specks of purple amongst them that turned out to be heather. Walking through the protective charms around the house was like pushing through a soap bubble, and beyond it the air was cooler, the sun less bright. 

_Where now?_

At the far end of the garden were pine trees, and behind them wood-covered hills. Peeping through the trees near the top of the hill was a small stone building, with columns. A folly? Gazebo? Ginny wasn’t sure. But it provided a destination, when going home was an impossibility. 

There was a well-marked path when she reached the woods, leading uphill, and the softness of the pine needles felt good under her feet as she breathed in the scent from the trees. There were huge rocks here, and the path skirted around them, climbing ever higher. 

When she reached the folly – if that’s what it was – she found it had windows, but no door, and she could walk inside. 

There were clumps of pine needles scattered across the black-and-white tiled floor. By the far door – also just an opening – was a cluster of birds, black, pecking busily at something. She was reminded irresistibly of the Dementors swarming around the dying Giant’s head, and something made her pull her wand from her pocket and shout at the birds. They were reluctant to scatter, but she managed to drive them away when her toes were inches away from the object of their interest. 

It was a kitten, which meowed up at her pathetically. Except kittens didn’t have six feet. It trotted towards her, unsteady on its six strangely-articulated legs, and rubbed itself against her shins, then circled between her feet. It meowed again. She stooped to stroke it, gingerly, and it was rubbing its head against her hand. It seemed unharmed, to her surprise; She must have arrived just in time.

“There,” she said, uselessly. “The horrible birds have gone now.” _Why do I have to sound like an idiot?_ “You’re fine,” she tried. “Go home.”

Unsurprisingly, the cat ignored her instruction, but continued to coil itself against her. She stepped away from the strange animal, towards the door she’d entered. The view was lovely here, with the clustered grey turrets of the house below her, and more wood-covered hills beyond them, beautiful in the sunlight. The little animal was against her ankles once more, and she knelt to stroke it as she admired the surroundings. 

When she came to leave the folly, though, the little animal seemed to consider this to be treachery. It stood at the door and meowed at her, long and plaintively. Was it lost? She tried to harden her heart and walk away, but the meows pursued her, until, angry with herself, she turned on her heel, picked up the animal and carried it down the hill. _If nothing else_ , she decided, _it'll annoy Malfoy_. It seemed happy now, and used its six legs to climb onto her shoulder.

When she reached the gravel, and the wall of protective charms, the cat-ant seemed less keen, and struggled as she walked through the shield. Was it sensitive to the magic surrounding the house? But once through the barrier, it seemed happy enough, meowing once more and pushing itself from her arms. It reached the front door before her, and looked back enquiringly. When Ginny reached for the handle and opened it, the animal slipped inside, inspected the room, leapt onto Draco’s wooden chair then sat down. It looked at her and meowed once more.

“Make yourself comfortable,” said Ginny, disconcerted. She went in search of Malfoy, and found him in the kitchen. He was sitting cross-legged next to the preparation table, hungrily eating the remains of the joint. He didn’t seem pleased to see her, or be found like that, and tossed the food back onto the plate beside him.

“I thought you’d gone,” he said. Ginny opened her mouth to snap a reply, but closed it again. Why _was_ she still here? She should be at home, comforting her mother, and the others, getting ready for… _his_ … funeral. 

“I want you to leave,” he said, annoyed. 

She hadn’t even told them where she was, she realised guiltily. She stepped back into the hall, for some privacy, and summoned her Patronus. 

“Sorry, Mum, Dad, everyone…” she said to it. “I forgot to tell you… I’m… staying with friends. For a couple of days… Let me know when the…” She found she couldn’t say ‘funeral’. She felt an incoherent fool then, and wanted to recast the message, but she couldn’t remember how to do that. “I’m OK,” she added. “Hope you’re all… OK…” Then before she could change her mind, she used the spell Hermione had taught her to send her Patronus fox home. But it failed to disappear, to her annoyance.

“That won’t work,” said Malfoy’s voice behind her. She spun angrily to glare at him. “You’re inside the charms shield.”

Silently, she marched outside, through the shield, and repeated the spell. The fox vanished. _I should wait for a reply_ , she told herself, but found herself returning to the house. Malfoy was inspecting the cat-insect, as it snoozed on the chair. 

“A _friend_ , am I?” he asked over his shoulder. “What’s this?”

“I found it outside,” she said, shortly, annoyed with him. “I think it’s lost.”

He turned to glare at her. “Get rid of it,” he said.

“No,” she said. The truce was over, it seemed, and she looked forward to a fight. Wasn’t that why she had come here? Was she already missing the war against Voldemort?

“Where are your parents?” she asked suddenly.

He frowned at her in annoyed puzzlement. “At home,” he said at last, grudgingly.

Her turn to be confused. “Isn’t this…?”

His lip curled. “This?” he said. “Just a hunting lodge.”

“So why did you come here?” she asked.

He stood, and stepped towards her, those unkind eyes of his fixing hers. “Why did you?” he asked. “Do you _have_ no friends? Are we going to be _buddies_ now?”

She made herself hold her ground. He was inches away from her now, and towered above her. Her wand was in her hand, at her side. Was this Bat Bogey time?

Somehow he sensed her thoughts, and stepped back. Was that fear or anger in his eyes? What was it like to be wandless?

“The charms shield won’t keep Giants out,” he said. 

He started to say something else, but suddenly there was a noise – a series of noises, thuds and flutterings – behind her, and he froze. She twisted and brought up her wand, and she realised that the sounds were coming from the hall. Cautiously she stepped up to the doorway and peeped out.

There was nobody there, but the room was full of movement. In puzzlement, she walked out into the hall. 

The hunting trophies were moving in their shields, their heads twisting around as if trying to escape, their mouths working angrily, although their eyes remained glassily dead. There was a thud, to her right. Something was loose in one of the glass cages – a bird was fluttering in there, battering the glass, trying to escape, and its companions were moving as well, spreading their wings. In another glass cabinet, some pheasants were pecking angrily at the glass, and, as she watched, it starred and she could only see the shadow of the pecking birds within. 

More movement: Something fell from the wall, at the far end of the hall. Then it was standing, shaking itself angrily, scratching at itself, trying to escape from the shield still around its neck. It was a fox. Its eyes were still glassy fakes, but it was squirming its head around, trying to bite at the shield, to free itself. As it twisted, she saw that its body was transparent, ghostlike, even while the head was as solid as before.

There was a crash as the glass case containing the pheasants disintegrated, and she ducked instinctively as a handful of dark shapes escaped. Their creaking call could be heard above the dry beating of their wings as they struggled to fly. 

Another shape fell from the wall – a small deer with long straight horns was struggling to its ghostly feet, shaking its head as it tried to escape the shield collar, and then it was putting its head down and running towards her. Another animal crashed to the ground as the deer reached her, distracting her. She dodged the deer’s lifting horns, but its shield thudded into her leg, nearly toppling her. The fox was on her now, sinking its teeth into her shin, and she cried out and kicked it free with her other foot as she brought up her wand. 

_“Diffindo!_ ” she shouted, pointing the wand wildly in the direction of the fox, which was circling around for a second attack, but she missed. Her second attempt hit the fox, and it tumbled over, but it was getting to its feet again. 

“ _Petrificus Totalis!_ ” she tried, and the fox froze. She brought her wavering wand around to another, bigger, animal – a wild cat, a civet, perhaps – and shouted the spell once more as it leaped towards her. Its now-frozen head thudded into her, she fell, and her wand spun out of her hand. 

There was a snarling wolf running towards her now, but she had to turn her back on it so she could wriggle over and look for her wand. She could see a bigger threat in that direction: Her wand was feet away from her, and Malfoy was running towards it, dodging the little deer, which ran heedlessly past him. He was on his knees now, stretching out his hand…

“No!” she shouted, and he flinched, but his clawing fingers had reached the wand. He pointed it at her and shouted something. The spell went over her head. There was a loud yelp; The spell had hit the wolf right behind her, and when she looked over her shoulder she could see it veer away from her, but it was still moving, turning back to attack her. 

She was distracted by the sight of another large animal – a lion, but with wings – leaping at the painting of the horse. The horse gave a whinnying scream and bolted, and the Manticore, instead of hitting the canvas, dived straight into the painting and disappeared, to her partial relief. Some unpleasant long-legged animals – Nogtails - followed, scrambling with difficulty over the frame and into the painting.

She got to her feet to launch herself at Malfoy, but the wolf was nearly upon her. She threw herself sideways to avoid being savaged, and landed hard on something. The dagger. The wolf was already doubling back towards her, and Malfoy was pointing her wand at a large deer running towards him, head lowered. 

She pedalled backwards with her feet as the wolf nimbly avoided the frozen fox, and as she did so her hand clawed desperately for the dagger. She reached it as the wolf leapt, and she couldn’t stop herself closing her eyes as its jaws came straight towards her.

A yelping scream made her open her eyes, and she could see that the wolf’s teeth were inches away from her face. The dagger blade was buried in its throat, and, as she watched, the struggling transparent body flared white and disappeared. Its head, jaws wide, froze and thudded to the floor, and with a moan she used both hands to drag the dagger free.

She could see a second frozen wolf, presumably the victim of Malfoy’s second spell, but beyond it she could see a huge pair of wings spreading into the air, and heard a strange cry she recognised. The Hippogriff…

She scrambled to her feet in horror, not knowing whether to run or fight, but it was too late to decide. In a pair of wingbeats, the Hippogriff was above her, folding its wings and dropping towards her, its beak opening wide. The dagger saved her once more as she heaved the blade up into the huge animal’s chest. Its cawing stopped suddenly as its body flashed white and disappeared, and the blank-eyed head smashed onto the floor next to her shoulder.

Equally terrifyingly, though, the huge grey mass of the rhinoceros was moving, turning, its huge horned head sweeping back and forth, and then it was pounding towards her. But she had to deal with a leopard first – something large and cat-like, anyway, that leapt at her – which succumbed to the dagger blade as she saw Malfoy running past her, wielding her wand. She wanted to scream at him, angrily, but first had to twist and dispatch a hugely-horned deer that was about to run her down.

To her right, a door crashed open, and new figures were running towards her – three house-elfs, still with their shields around their necks, carrying weapons – knives and forks she recognised from the dining room. Their agility – and rudimentary weapons - made them harder to deal with, but she managed somehow to down all three of them just as a lion bounded towards her, and the rhino was looming ever closer. She was running backwards to give herself some space, with no heed to any attacker behind her, when she saw Malfoy snatch the snoozing cat-insect from its chair and head for the front door, dodging a second leopard, that snarled, twisted and ran after him.

 _Serves him right_ , she thought, but the lion was almost on her. Before she had time to react, the lumbering rhino clashed with the lion as they both tried to attack her. The lion yelped and fell, the rhino took two lumbering steps back and charged. She was tumbling backwards – yet another animal had tangled with her legs, yowling angrily, and she had to stab this one first, even with the rhino about to trample her…

Suddenly there was silence. The rhino was right on top of her. To her horror, she could see a huge bear to her right, almost within reach – but motionless. The rhino was frozen too. A strange thudding rain as endless heads hit the floor, and then dark shapes – the game birds that had been circling the room - dropped out of the air. The only sound now was her irregular, gasping breath. She managed to stand. The floor was a sea of heads on shields - The ghostly bodies had totally disappeared. 

She walked unsteadily towards the door that Malfoy had left open, heading towards the daylight, her legs shaky and uncertain, skirting the fallen animals: Here was another bear’s head, huge, its jaws stretched wide, next to the cruel beak of the Hippogriff. 

She tottered out of the door, into dazzling brightness. Another head was lying outside – the leopard that had chased Malfoy. She couldn’t see Draco, but across the gravel was a small shape – the cat-insect – walking uncertainly and meowing. Why had Malfoy saved it? He’d shown no affection for the little animal, but then he was a Malfoy.

It was hard to walk now – she seemed to be stiffening with every step, her bleeding leg ever more sore – but she pushed through the bubble of the charm shield, next to the cat. The little animal was trying to get through the shield.

“Kill it!” Malfoy’s voice, a shout from nearby. She realised he must be hiding amongst the dwarf hedges bordering the gravel. “That _thing!_ ” he yelled. “Get rid of it! Quickly!”

She turned around hurriedly, fearing another attack from the animals in the house, but the only thing in sight was the cat-insect.

“ _Kill it_!” screamed Malfoy, still invisible.

At last thought caught up with her. “Give me my wand!” she yelled, in panic.

“Doesn’t work!” shouted Malfoy. “I tried!”

“ _Give me my wand_!” she screamed. The cat was stepping towards her on its six legs, still meowing plaintively.

“Kill it!” shouted Malfoy once more. In desperation, she put both hands to the handle of the dagger and stabbed at the cat. It was as if she’d hit a wall – her arms flared with pain at the shock – and the cat-insect merely meowed at her, plaintively.

“ _My wand_!” she shouted in desperation.

Malfoy stood up behind a hedge and threw; Her wand came tumbling through the air, too high and way to her left, and she ran, jumped and caught it. She swung it towards the cat-insect. “ _Petrificus Totalis!_ ” she shouted. The cat was still moving. “ _Petrificus Totalis! Diffindo! Incendio!_ ” Dimly, she could hear Malfoy yelling “No!” in response to each of her spells.

The animal was stepping towards her on its six legs, still meowing plaintively.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” she shouted, desperately. “ _Reducto! Confringo!_ ” And it was gone, blown to nothing. In the silence her gasp was more of a sob, and she took several more unsteady breaths. There was only a blackened area of gravel where the cat-insect had been. 

She could see a white head poke up cautiously over the hedge, and then Malfoy stood, slowly, uncertainly. 

“What was that?” she asked, wildly. 

He looked at her with angry disbelief. “ _You_ brought the stupid thing here!” he yelled.

She had to think about that, turning back to look at the now-still house once more. She was out of breath, and it was hard to speak. “Sorry,” she said eventually, rebelliously, over her shoulder. _I’m apologising to Malfoy_ , she thought in angry disbelief. 

“ _And_?” he shouted. “I saved your life!”

And? More thought, more inner rebellion. She made herself turn towards him. “OK…” she panted, angrily. “OK… Thanks...”

She helped Malfoy return the house to its former state. She declined his request to borrow her wand once more, so instead he gestured to each shield in turn and pointed to the place it came from. Even with her wand, her arms were soon hurting as she rehung each one. A couple of the heads were badly damaged by the spells they’d cast, the fox’s head was barely recognisable, and there were some gaps on the walls, but Malfoy didn’t comment. Then they returned the birds to their cabinets, where Draco repositioned them carefully, before she repaired each glass case. Finally, it took two of them to heave the rhinoceros back onto its stand, as it hovered under _Wingardium Leviosa_ , until they could settle it heavily into place.

“I’m hungry,” he said then. “Call me when it’s ready.”

“ _I’M NOT YOUR SERVANT!_ ” she shouted then, but she didn’t bring out her wand, and anger against herself, and residual guilt, made her return to the kitchen to prepare another meal. She took a form of revenge by cooking an elaborate dinner, two courses this time, and making him wait for it, but he kept away until the food was ready. When he appeared, he didn’t say anything, and kept his eyes down as he ate. 

She felt almost at home here, she decided, in her stolen dress, eating in grandeur at a huge polished table. Less of an outsider.

“What _was_ that thing?” she asked eventually. He shrugged, annoyed. 

“Did the Giants send it?” she tried. 

He scowled and shook his head, his mouth still full. “Bragrak, maybe,” he said eventually. 

“A _Goblin_?” she said, disbelievingly. That seemed even less likely. 

“Your side, then,” he said, as he finished his plateful.

“ _Mine_?” she retorted, stung. “What about your lot?”

He looked up at her now, unimpressed. “All this to attack _you_? _Here_? Don’t paranoids worry about logic?” 

“Not me, _you_. You and your parents!” she snapped.

He shook his head. “No,” he said with finality. “This wasn’t our side.”

“So it’s all one happy family in the Death Eaters, is it? They’re all going to be here soon for a party, yeah? Pumpkin juice and cauldron cakes and singing around the campfire?”

He looked puzzled then, but merely shook his head. “The Dark Lord’s dead,” he said, “but the war isn’t over.”

She felt a prickle of something then. Fear? Or hope? “So are we still at war? You and me?”

“You’re the one with the wand,” he said, shortly. “Is there any left?” he asked, indicating his plate. She nodded, uncertainly, and was very aware of him as he stepped past her to return to the kitchen. In a single movement she stood and followed him.

“So what is this between us?” she demanded. “War? Peace? Armistice?” She nearly bumped her head on the low doorframe as she stooped to look into the kitchen. He was kneeling next to the table, filling his plate, and didn’t turn as he answered. 

“ _You_ followed _me_ here,” he said.

“You _dragged_ me here,” she shot back, annoyed.

“You could have left. And if you’d wanted to kill me, you’d have done it by now,” he said. “So why didn’t you?”

That made her angry, somehow. “Because I didn’t need to!” she snapped.

That made him turn around and look at her, hatred in his eyes. _This_ was the Malfoy she remembered, not the listless shadow of himself he’d become. He dropped his plate onto the table, but instead of leaping to attack her, as she wanted – needed, she realised – he sat on the floor, stretched his long legs and leaned against the table leg.

“We’ve both lost, haven’t we?” he said.

“Lost?” she echoed. She wanted to argue then, but found she couldn’t. And it was easier to kneel, she decided, than stoop to look at him. Her hand resting on her thigh discovered a sticky roughness, a line of blood where an animal had gouged her.

“My father…” he said slowly, “My father devoted his life to the Dark Lord. After the Dark Lord returned, that was all he thought about. I was never a _son_ to him then. Just a… foot soldier. A tool. A pawn, brought up to worship the Dark Lord.”

She was even angrier then. “You were just obeying orders?” she snarled. “Just a little innocent?”

He shook his head, briefly. “The Dark Lord was like… was like God, to me,” he said. “Not a kindly, Christian, merciful one. No, a human god, bringing angry justice. Retribution. But order as well. My father failed him,” said Malfoy. “I failed him. And my mother turned against him.”

“Your mother?” demanded Ginny in amazement. “How?”

“In the forest,” said Malfoy. There was anger in his eyes, but pain as well. “The Dark Lord and Potter fought, and Potter died. Only, somehow, he didn’t. Why didn’t he die?”

“I don’t know,” said Ginny.

“My mother told the Dark Lord that Potter was dead. He thought he’d won, he dropped his guard, he let him come back to life, he listened to all that Potter had to say, and Potter killed him.” He stared at her. “You were there. What did Potter tell him?” he asked. “When they were duelling?”

“I don’t remember,” she said, truthfully. She hadn’t cared at the time, she’d been full of hope and fear, and love, and now she could barely recall what Harry had shouted at Voldemort. Just words, she’d thought. Just a distraction.

“My mother killed the Dark Lord,” said Malfoy. “He was on the point of victory, and she lied to him.”

“Harry killed him!” she said angrily. “Why did she lie? Did she change sides?”

He looked at her, stonily. “She told us. Afterwards. After the battle… My mother… My mother said… said the Dark Lord should have repaid us. Instead of spurning us. Treating us like elfs, but elfs with clothes, too stupid to leave. She said. So she decided to side with Potter. A boy full of hate, she said, but one who loved as well. One who was faithful to those he loved.”

Ginny’s eyes were full of darkness now. “He wasn’t faithful to me,” she found herself saying.

Malfoy didn’t seem to hear her. “I couldn’t stay there,” he said. 

“Because she betrayed you?” she asked, her thoughts on her own betrayal.

“She told us we were nothing more than worthless sacrifices.”

If he’d thrown the table at her, Ginny thought afterwards, it would have been less of a shock, it would have hurt less, than his last two words. _Is that all I am, too?_ she wondered. _Worthless? A sacrifice?_ She found herself shaking her head in denial.

“Why did she say that?” demanded Malfoy, his voice unsteady. “About Potter? He’s full of hate. Always. As soon as he met me, he hated me. I didn’t hate him, not at first. He was… When I was young, I remember he was the new hope… But then I met him. With that troll brother of yours. And it didn’t help I had two stupid trolls with me as well, just because our fathers were all Death Eaters. Maybe if they hadn’t been there, he and I could have been friends. Ever think of that? But all Potter wanted to do was hate. From the start. He hated me. And Crabbe and Goyle, and Professor Snape. Even Snape, who died helping him.”

She found her voice. “Snape always hated him. And you hated him, too,” she said. 

_Do I hate Harry?_ Ginny asked herself. _No, I hate myself. For allowing myself to be a sacrifice, for being worthless._

Malfoy was crying now, bringing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, his shoulders shaking. She couldn’t bear that - that weakness, that emotion – and she was turning away, getting to her feet and retreating back into the hallway. The rhinoceros was in front of her, and she walked towards it, and put out her hand to touch its hide. Its skin was hard and unyielding. _This is how I want to be_ , she told herself. _Tough, impregnable, thoughts frozen_. There were steps behind her now, and she steeled herself not to turn and look at him, and then his arms were around her, and she could feel his sobs as he squeezed her to him.

 _Hard_ , she said to herself. _Unyielding_.


	5. The Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

He let her go soon enough, with a choking sound, and she heard his footsteps climbing the stairs. The hall seemed very empty then, so she found a room with a huge fireplace and equally huge and feather-soft sofas. She lit a fire with her wand, and sat and watched the flames, bright in the gathering dusk, her mind numb. 

She was very conscious of Malfoy when he came into the room, but he merely sat in another chair, out of her sightline, and neither of them spoke for some time. When they eventually did talk – Ginny couldn’t afterwards remember who broke the silence - their conversation turned to the battle, piecing together what they knew. Without Harry, and Voldemort, and others, it was hard to work out what had actually happened, who had died when, and how the battle had finally turned. Malfoy spoke freely of his attempts to hinder Harry in his efforts to find the final Horcrux. He didn’t seem to see anything wrong in his actions – Crabbe had been in charge by then, he admitted - and barely regretted Crabbe’s death: His annoyance at his companion nearly getting them all killed outweighed that. 

“And Harry saved your life?” asked Ginny.

“Yes.”

“And you don’t owe him for that?” she asked, curious.

“It’s not the first time,” said Malfoy indifferently. “It wasn’t for my sake. It was purely about him. He always had to look good.”

Somehow she was standing in front of him then, her wand inches from his face, and there was fear in his eyes once more. His eyes searched hers. “You know that’s true,” he said. “Why else are you here?”

She couldn’t answer.

“I watched you,” he said then, his eyes still on hers. “At the battle. I saw you take down Nott. You were trying to reach the Dark Lord himself until Bellatrix got in the way.”

“You like that, do you?” she managed to say. “You like killers?”

“But you’re not like Potter, are you?” he said. His tone was calm, despite the tenseness in his body. “You don’t hate. No. An avenging angel.”

“I’m no angel,” she said.

Malfoy gave a twisted smile. She wanted to wipe the smile from his face, but there was no spell for that. Instead she turned away from him and returned to her sofa. Her head swam as she sat down, and she had to shut her eyes to steady herself. 

She awoke in confusion. She was still on the sofa, but it was daylight now, and she distinctly remembered it had been evening when she’d been talking to Malfoy. The fire was grey ash, and he’d gone. There was a soft white blanket across her. Had Draco done that?

A huge crash. She realised then that a similar noise had awoken her. She looked upwards, instinctively, because it felt as if the whole building was shaking. She heard running steps, and saw Malfoy hurrying past the door.

“Wait!” she called, but then she was pushing the blanket aside and getting to her feet. Her limbs were stiff, she registered, as she went after him.

Another crash, to her right. The front door. Malfoy was diving into the kitchen. Was he hiding, or escaping? She pelted after him. Another huge crash behind her. Over her shoulder she could see daylight where the main door had been. Were they trapped in here?

The kitchen grew suddenly brighter: Malfoy had thrown open a low door to the outside, but then he cried out and recoiled. She could see a huge figure beyond the doorway.

The Giants had arrived.

Malfoy was scrabbling towards her, his face blank in shock. “Is there another way out of here?” she shouted at him. Another crash behind her. Over her shoulder she could see a second Giant, stooping to peer in through the ruined doorway.

Malfoy looked stunned, defeated, terrified. She grabbed his arm and shook him. “Is there another way out?” she shouted. He looked at her blankly, his face very white. He tried to bolt past her then, back into the house, but something made her hold onto him, and she was ducking and running through the low kitchen, dragging him behind her, until they were outside. 

“Run!” she shouted to him, but he was a sprawl of limbs, total deadweight. The Giant in front of them was looking over their heads, and didn’t seem to hear them either. She dragged Malfoy to his feet, her muscles cracking under the strain, and then she was pulling him along. They were on a terrace, lined with a pillared stone balustrade, and the Giant was standing beyond that. They angled away from the Giant, reached the balustrade and she was dragging Malfoy across the top of it. 

The ground on the far side fell away steeply – the Giant was much bigger than she’d thought, and was standing unsteadily on the slope. He roared as he spotted them. The ground was yards below, and they had to jump, crashing painfully into undergrowth at the bottom. They half-limped, half-fell down the slope, thudding into a large bush partway down, but they had to push themselves away from the bush in a hurry when a huge hand swept across the top of it. Her heart lifted when the Giant’s swipe overbalanced him, and he had to turn hurriedly and run down the slope for a few steps to regain his balance, before he could twist towards them and roar once more.

A high wall, in decorative white stone, barred their way, and they turned to run along the inside of the wall, away from the Giant. The ground was almost flat along the wall, and they could run more easily, but they could feel and hear the Giant’s footsteps crashing unevenly down the slope behind them. Malfoy thudded into her, and she turned to swear at him, and swore again when his arms enveloped her and his hand was fumbling at her waist.

“No!” she shouted. She could see the Giant thundering towards them, but she couldn’t escape Malfoy’s grip. 

His hand came free, holding the dagger. He turned and threw it high in the air, towards the Giant, who caught it with a triumphant roar. Malfoy pulled at her once more, and she was swearing at him again, but he was dragging her away, running along the hemming wall.

A narrow set of steps ended at a door in the wall, and they ran down the steps as Ginny fumbled for her wand.

“Alohamora!” she yelled, and the door burst open, and they were through. It seemed safest to turn left once more and run along under the wall, but Malfoy grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the castle, and she wasn’t strong enough to resist. She realised why when she felt the soap-bubble charm barrier hit her face. A huge roar behind her; The Giant had leapt over the wall, and the ground shook as he landed. She could see the dagger in his upraised hand; It looked tiny in his great fist, his roars deafening. Malfoy’s hand tightened on her arm, he seemed to swerve across in front of her, and then she was squeezed and dizzied at the same time, and they fell to the ground and rolled, Malfoy ending on top of her. The Giant had vanished, and all was quiet.

They seemed to have Apparated into a flowerbed. There was soft loamy soil under her hands, she could smell rich earth, and small thorny bushes dug into her skin. She squawked loudly until Malfoy climbed off her, and she could hear his panting breath as well as her own. 

Malfoy, being Malfoy, didn’t help her to her feet, but waded out of the flowerbed towards a pair of high metal gates, reminding her of the entrance to Hogwarts. But he turned and gestured as he reached them, and she trekked across the flowerbed towards him. He seized her arm without explanation and pulled her through the gates; there wasn’t even the soap-bubble sensation as he did so. 

It was darker here. They seemed to be in an avenue between tall hedges, but the ground rose steeply on either side of them. The avenue rose too, and Malfoy dropped her arm and headed along it, towards the brighter clearing where the hedges seemed to end. As she reached the top of the slope, she could see the ruins of an ancient house, larger than the hunting lodge. Between them and the house was a tangle of trees and shrubs that kept the house in deep shade. 

That soap bubble sensation. To her amazement, the trees and bushes disappeared, and she was walking across a huge lawn towards the house, which was now intact - perfect despite its antiquity – and sleeping in the sunlight. Behind her was – appeared to be – a wood of large deciduous trees. She followed Malfoy, who was heading towards the ancient front door. A strange cry made her turn around. A large white bird with a huge tail was parading across the grass. A peacock, she realised, only white.

She found her voice as they reached the door. “Is this the gardener’s place, then?” she asked, mockingly.

He shook his head in annoyance. The door opened as he reached it, but no butler appeared, to her disappointment. In fact the house seemed utterly quiet. The hall wasn’t as huge as the hunting lodge’s, but was much grander. The panelled walls were covered with portraits, two particularly huge ones flanking a wide staircase that rose in front of them. 

Malfoy hurried across to a pair of impressive doors, and Ginny was following him when a voice close by stopped her. 

“Draco…”

A woman’s voice, seeming to come from the air beside Ginny. No, from the wall. 

“Draco,” said the voice again. “Wait…”

She could see Draco freeze and turn around. He’d seemed pale before, but now he was near-white, his eyes as glassy as the attacking animals had been. He turned fearfully to look at the portrait to the right of the stairs. He made a sound – a cry, a moan.

The portrait, larger than life-sized, was of a tall, slender and elegant woman, standing against a pastoral background – trees, shrubs, flowers. She had long blonde hair and aristocratic features, but her face was twisted with concern.

“Please, Draco,” she said. “Leave here.”

“What happened…?” croaked Malfoy. “Where’s…?”

“Wait,” said the portrait. “You must wait.”

“Where’s Father?”

“Soon, darling. He’ll be here shortly.”

Ginny realised the portrait on the other side of the stairs was blank, near-black. As she looked, an area near the top of the painting lightened, grew in definition. A house - _this_ house - appeared at the top of the picture. And then there was a horse, huge and chestnut, with bridle, filling the painting. It tossed its head and snorted, but was restrained by a hand on the reins. As she watched, the hand became an arm, and the arm became an entire figure, in riding clothes, with cream breeches and plum coat. The face resolved: Thin, pale, white blond. Lucius Malfoy.

“Oh, no!” said Malfoy, in a voice of such loss and desolation that Ginny felt it inside herself. Lucius didn’t reply, but stared gravely into the distance, ignoring the fidgeting horse behind him.

“It’s over, Draco,” said the other portrait, softly. “For us. Our course is done. It’s your time now.”

“No!” said Malfoy loudly. “It can’t be…”

“He had no wand,” said the portrait. “The Dark Lord stole his life, when he took his wand. My wand wasn’t enough…”

“Father, please!” said Draco.

“He _will_ talk to you,” said Draco’s mother. “In time. You need to be patient.”

“But, I…” But he could find no more words. He was on his knees now, head drooping, in front of his father’s portrait.

“Who are you?” asked the other portrait. Ginny realised the woman was looking at her. She didn’t know how to answer. It was hugely unsettling, talking to someone so recently dead, even an enemy. Although was she really an enemy now? She had saved Harry’s life, and perhaps everybody’s.

“Just a friend,” said Ginny, uncomfortably. Ginny had never met Draco’s mother, but Lucius would recognise her, when he awoke from the strange state he was in.

“Why are you here?” asked the woman, suspiciously.

Somehow that was an easier question, and she didn’t have to lie. “Your son saved my life,” she said. “I saved his.”

The blonde woman gazed at her intently. “Will you look after him?” she asked eventually.

“We’ll look after each other,” said Ginny. That was a lie, and she had to avoid his mother’s eyes. Draco and she were bound together purely by circumstance; As soon as possible, she knew, they would part company, as enemies, probably. 

“Don’t let him… see… anything here,” said the portrait. A small bird within the portrait was hopping from branch to branch in the tree next to Draco’s mother, and it was easier to look at that.

That confused Ginny. “Why not?” she had to ask.

“He knows we are… gone,” said the other. “He doesn’t need to know how. Promise me,” she said, determinedly.

“I can’t…”

“Promise me,” insisted the portrait.

“OK,” said Ginny, avoiding the painted eyes once more.

“Draco,” said his mother, firmly. “You must leave here. Go with your friend. This is your house now, but you mustn’t return to it until we’re ready to receive you.”

Draco didn’t seem to hear her. 

“Your friend will take you away from here,” the portrait ordered, and it was easier to follow that command. Ginny went over to Draco, put her hand on his arm and pulled, gently. Automatically, he rose, and turned away from the image of his father.

“Goodbye, Draco,” said his mother. “You know we will always be with you.”

Ginny sneaked a look at him as they walked towards the door, but his expression was unreadable. She pulled the heavy door open and led him through it, her neck prickling at the thought that two portraits were watching them so intently.

She pulled the door closed and led him across the lawn, uncertainly. Where was the gate they’d entered by? There was a fountain in the direction they were heading; She couldn’t remember passing it last time. When they reached it, she could see it was dry.

She turned and headed back towards the house. “Wait,” she called out to Malfoy, over her shoulder. “Wait here…”

She crossed the lawn, back towards the house. _This is when Lucius recognises me_ , she said to herself. _This is when I get thrown out, or worse._ But that didn’t seem to deflect her from entering the house once more.

Lucius was still staring blankly into the distance, but his wife frowned at her. 

“He needs your wand,” said Ginny. “To protect himself.” 

The expected refusal didn’t come, but nor did anything else. Draco’s mother continued to stare at her. _Do I leave now?_ Ginny wondered.

Eventually the portrait spoke. “Go into the room to your right. Do not touch anything, apart from my wand. Do not tell Draco anything of what you see. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Ginny, relieved. “Where is your wand?”

“It was dragged from my hand,” said Draco’s mother. “You will have to find it.”

“Who took it?” asked Ginny. “Are they still here?”

“They have gone now,” was the reply. “They attacked us.”

“But who _were_ they?” Ginny persisted.

“Animals,” said the portrait. “Game.”

“ _Animals_?” asked Ginny in sudden fear. “Wolves and foxes, and…?”

“A Manticore,” said Draco’s mother. “Nogtails.”

“Animals,” said Ginny to herself, despairingly. “You’re sure they’ve gone?” she asked.

“Yes. Fetch the wand.”

Ginny could only stare at her, in horror. 

“Hurry,” prompted the portrait.

Ginny made herself pull out her wand and then the dagger. She approached the doors, nervously. She decided to hold the dagger in her right hand, her wand in her left. _Would that work?_ It was hard to open the door with her wand in her hand.

An imposing room, with a hugely long dining table receding away from her. A great fireplace to the right of the table. Animal heads in shields were littered everywhere. She could see dark stains on the muzzles of several of them. To her right, in the corner of the room, was a cluster of animal heads, and the floor beneath them was stained red. Beyond the fireplace was another cluster of heads, and more red stain. There were no bodies visible. Had the shield animals entirely consumed their prey?

She swapped hands, so her wand was in her right hand, and slowly circled the room, avoiding the stains. 

There… Something long and thin, partly under a huge fanged head. She bent and pulled it free. The wand was intact, but bloodstained, and sticky. She looked around for inspiration. The huge table still had the remains of a meal on it, but hugely disordered. There was a wine bottle on its side, and when she picked it up she could see it still held some white wine. She poured the remaining wine over the wand, splashing her own clothes, and then found a napkin on the table to wipe the wand dry. It sparked slightly as she did so. 

There were doors in the far corners of the room. She opened each in turn, her pulse climbing again, but the rooms beyond were empty, too, and the rooms beyond those, apart from a litter of animal heads. She found a set of small stairs behind one door, leading up and down. Upstairs were empty bedrooms, huge ones, also strewn with heads, and downstairs were kitchens, storerooms, and more animal heads. In a corner of one kitchen were more blood stains, smaller than before, several of them. 

They had to be house-elfs, she decided numbly. But nowhere was there any sign of a cat-insect, or anything similar. 

She returned to the Entrance Hall. Malfoy’s mother’s portrait was unmoving now, and Ginny felt equally numb as she crossed to the main door and stepped outside. 

She could see Malfoy, his hands resting on the fountain, staring into the distance. 

_I killed his parents_ , she thought blankly as she walked slowly towards him _. Because of me, those animals tore them apart. I brought the cat-insect into the hunting lodge, through the protective spells, and started the spell working._ That winged lion, and all the others, came alive, leapt through the paintings, into this house, and killed them both. Lucius Malfoy, who had tried to destroy her, years ago. Malfoy’s mother, who had saved them all.

She took his arm and led him across the grass until it transformed into bushes and trees once more. She looked back at the now-ruined house. _It’s my turn_ , she decided, _to decide where we go now_. They passed once more through the dream gates. _Let’s hope I don’t regret this_ , she told herself as they twisted, and the compression hit them again.


	6. The Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

_What must it be like_ , Ginny wondered, _to be a Muggle when their house burns down?_ Hermione had described to her once, in answer to a curious question, how Muggle workmen built their houses, a piece at a time, taking years, sometimes. _How would you live, while your home was being re-created? Where would you go?_ If nothing else, magic meant that a house could be regrown in minutes, and if there were small strangenesses at first, such as doors not leading where they should, these were minor inconveniences. And your personal possessions returned, too. You didn’t lose everything, as Hermione described.

So The Burrow now looked very much like it had when she’d seen it last, as ramshackle and tumbledown as ever, although mysteriously the outdoor broom shed now sported a bright purple panelled door, in place of the weather-silvered plank door of old. A gnome scampered across the yard as she pulled Malfoy towards the kitchen door. He didn’t resist, either because he didn’t know, or didn’t understand, where he was.

The kitchen door opened, and Hermione, of all people, was standing there. Her look of surprise and pleasure at seeing Ginny turned to horror when she saw whose hand she was holding.

“Back in a minute,” she called over her shoulder, skipped out of the door and slammed it behind her. She hurriedly stepped forward and reached a hand out to them both. To Ginny’s bewilderment, they were spinning once more, and when she regained her balance found they were standing in a street which she only slowly recognised. They were outside Madam Puddifoot’s, the Hogsmeade teashop. Hermione hurried them both inside, and steered them to a tiny empty table. 

“Harry hates this place,” she said by way of explanation. “He won’t come here.”

“Is everything all right?” Ginny asked, anxiously. “What’s wrong?”

Hermione’s eyes swivelled between the two of them, wide-eyed. “Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “Yet. You got my message then? About the funeral?”

Ginny shook her head, with sudden horror. “No,” she said unhappily. “What message?”

“That it’s today?” queried Hermione. “This afternoon? Did nothing get through?”

“No…”

Hermione’s sigh was exasperated yet resigned. “We kept trying to send Patronus messages, but they wouldn’t go. Have you ever seen a Patronus _shrug_? And Hermes kept bringing back our letters. Where were you?”

“I’m… not sure,” said Ginny, embarrassed now. She nodded towards Malfoy, who was staring blankly at Hermione. “We’d both been drinking,” she added.

Hermione stared at her in horror.

“And then we got attacked,” Ginny felt compelled to add. “By dead animals. Oh, and Giants.”

Hermione squinted at them both, her expression crystallised uncertainty. “Dead animals?” she asked eventually.

Ginny jumped when Madam Puddifoot spoke loudly over her shoulder, asking for their order. As soon as she’d gone, Hermione was demanding an explanation.

Even when Ginny was uncertain about details, and hoped Malfoy would say something, he kept silent. When their order arrived, Ginny stopped talking, but as soon as the waitress had gone, Hermione was urging her to continue.

Ginny couldn’t talk about what she’d discovered when she’d re-entered Malfoy Manor, alone. Not with Draco there.

When she’d finished, Hermione’s eyes, round in amazement, went to Malfoy. “Who killed your parents?” she whispered.

Malfoy didn’t answer. “Who’d want to?” Ginny asked rhetorically. “Most people, I should think. Am I in trouble?” she blurted out then. “With Mum and Dad? And Harry? And with…?”

“Most people, I should think,” said Hermione dryly.

“Oh,” said Ginny, worried now. “How much?”

“Let me put it this way,” said Hermione. “Turning up with Draco Malfoy probably counts as the last straw.”

“I couldn’t leave him there,” said Ginny. “Not at his parent’s house.”

Hermione gazed at her in amazement. “I never had you down as the caring type,” she said eventually. “And why did you desert Hogwarts? We all thought you’d gone home.”

“I couldn’t,” Ginny said defensively. “Not then.”

“Your mother was worried silly,” said Hermione. “When she wasn’t crying about Fred, or shouting at Percy.”

“Is George all right?”

“He’s OK,” said Hermione. 

“And Harry?”

“He’s sleeping, mostly,” said Hermione. “Reaction,” she added. “And… stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“I gave him some sedatives,” admitted Hermione. “Muggle ones.”

“Sedatives?” asked Ginny in confusion.

“Make him sleep,” said Hermione. “Keep him calm.”

“Is he angry?”

“Ginny, why…?”

“Why did I walk out?” said Ginny in sudden anger. “Because he forgot about me. He tuned me out. I wasn’t important to him!”

“ _Not important_?” asked Hermione in amazement. “He hasn’t talked about anything else since you left!”

A sudden warmth claimed Ginny’s chest, but her mouth kept going anyway. “Oh dear,” she said in heavy irony. “Poor Harry’s _possession_ had walked out on him.”

“Possession?” asked Hermione in surprise. “He doesn’t think about you like that!”

“Well, he’s lost Hedwig, hasn’t he?” Ginny couldn’t stop herself, and she was secretly glad that only Hermione was hearing this. “Needs a pet to talk to in idle moments. _Who’s a pretty girl then_?”

“Ginny! What’s got into you?” snapped Hermione. “Harry’s been fighting this battle for ages now. Years and years. And suddenly it’s over. You expect him to be _normal_ , after that?”

“I expect him to be Harry!” said Ginny, too loudly. “But I know what that means now!”

Heads at other tables were turning in her direction, but she didn’t care.

“What are you talking about?” Hermione hissed indignantly, her eyes swivelling to the other customers in embarrassment. She turned to Malfoy. “What have you been saying to her?”

“This is nothing to do with him!” snapped Ginny. 

“Why are you here?” Hermione demanded of Malfoy.

“Because I brought him here,” said Ginny in irritation. “If I come home now,” asked Ginny, “what’s going to happen?”

“ _If_?” echoed Hermione in amazement. “You have to come home! It’s the funeral this afternoon!”

“After the funeral, then?”

Hermione shrugged in exasperation. “Mrs Weasley will shout at you for days, when she’s not crying, and your father will lecture you in the gaps. But you know that.”

Ginny sighed resignedly. “What about Harry?” she asked.

Hermione shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I don’t know if he’s more angry or worried right now,” answered Hermione. “But I do know how he’ll be if _he_ turns up,” she nodded at Malfoy.

“I need a favour,” said Ginny, urgently.

“What sort of favour?” asked Hermione, suspiciously.

“I need some Polyjuice Potion…”

Hermione was ahead of her. “No! No way! Bring Malfoy if you have to, but if you start _sneaking_ him in…”

“You know people won’t be reasonable…”

“They’ll be a lot less than reasonable if they find out!” overrode Hermione. “What if they start discussing Order business in front of him?”

“What’s he going to do? Voldemort’s dead. His parents are dead, along with most of the Death Eaters…”

Hermione pointed angrily at Malfoy. “He’ll think of something! I wouldn’t trust him an inch! And you’re proposing _smuggling him in_?”

“Look,” said Ginny in exasperation, “If anyone starts saying anything sensitive, I’ll pull him out of there. And you can Obliviate him. OK?”

“Well…”

“We just need to decide who to disguise him as,” said Ginny. “Someone nobody knows too well. I was thinking maybe Michael Corner…”

“That’ll really set Harry off,” said Hermione. “If you start bringing your ex-boyfriends…”

“Well, how about…”

“…Or possible future ones,” said Hermione loudly, “The Battle for Hogwarts is going to look pretty tame by comparison.”

“So…?”

“So let me think…”

Ginny hadn’t realised she was attending three funerals – for her brother, Tonks and Remus. Nor how difficult it would be to stand next to Harry. 

The occasion was supposed to be family members only, but many took that extremely loosely, and there must have been over a hundred in the sticky heat of the clearing in the woods that Mr and Mrs Weasley had chosen, in consultation with Andromeda Tonks, chief mourner for both Tonks and Remus. The sun blazed down on the mourners, unforgivingly, reminding them somehow that between them all they had let these three die.

Most eyes were on Harry, of course, and she would have preferred to stand at the back of the crowd, while she said her own goodbyes to Fred, and Tonks, and Professor Lupin. Instead, she had to stand next to the man of the moment and endure the inquiring looks. These flickered in puzzlement between Harry, on her left, looking annoyed, and the near-stranger on her right – Angharad Marsh, from the year below Ginny’s, her face strangely blank, holding Ginny’s hand. 

The real Angharad was in South Wales, Hermione said. It was she who had found Angharad’s hairbrush in a Hogwarts dormitory and used the hairs tangled in it to transform Malfoy into their owner. 

There was a horrible void within Ginny now. Selfishly, perhaps, she had been wrapped in her own concerns ever since the battle had finished, and now she was forced to come to terms with the loss of at least three people she’d been so close to, even while she was haunted by the thought that she had killed the Malfoys. She remembered the three of them so vividly: the brother who had jointly filled her life with pranks and laughter, the effervescent Metamorphagus who had chosen Ginny as little sister, and even the kindly werewolf who had taught her, and married Tonks… How could she really believe they had gone? An extra heartbreak was little Teddy in the arms of Andromeda, an unlikely pair who between them had lost their entire family. Teddy surely didn’t understand what today meant, but did she, Ginny, really understand any better?

Harry, close beside her, coughed and shifted his feet. George was trying to speak about his twin, and mostly failing. Angelina Johnson was standing by his shoulder, murmuring in his ear, her hand locked around his, seemingly keeping him upright by sheer force of will. 

_I should be holding Harry’s hand_ , she thought, numbly. She had lifted her hand slightly in his direction when she had reached his side, but he’d ignored the minimal gesture. _Does he think I prefer girls, now?_ she thought, indignantly. _Why should it worry him that I’m supporting someone else?_

“This is _Ang_ harad,” she’d said - “Ang _har_ ad,” she’d corrected herself quickly, when Hermione hissed in her ear – “She’s just lost her parents, so she’s come here… No, Ravenclaw… We’ve been friends… Um, for some time now… No, she won’t be staying long…”

Ginny could never have seen herself as friends with a swot from the year below, but no-one seemed to question this, and had merely grimaced, shot a look at her blank-faced companion, assumed a look of sorrow and somehow shame – why shame? – and moved on. And fortunately, perhaps, her mother hadn’t had the peace of mind to argue, and many wanted to claim Harry to talk to, so she’s been spared a lengthy cross-examination from him as well. She’d tried to tell Malfoy, beforehand, that he should remain silent, but whether he heard her or merely stayed quiet because of his own misery she couldn’t tell. And he ignored Harry entirely.

Another cough and fidget from Harry. Dawlish, of all people, was talking about Tonks now. Hermione had whispered in her ear that Dawlish was Chief Auror now, news even more disturbing than the idea of Kingsley Shacklebolt as Minister of Magic. 

Perhaps Harry thought Ginny should be speaking about Tonks. She’d merely shaken her head when her father had suggested it, and he hadn’t pressed her. _Something else for you to judge me on,_ she thought silently and angrily to Harry. _Strange nobody judges_ you, she thought to him _. Strange it’s OK to say you love someone, and then pretend it never happened._

Her right hand was being squeezed; She brought her attention back to what Dawlish was saying – mawkish words about Teddy. She glanced sideways at Draco, but his – her – face was blank. What was he thinking? About his own parents?

Professor McGonagall now, talking about Remus Lupin. The new headmistress’s voice was permanently hoarse now, from the strains of the past weeks, perhaps, and her eyes were red and watery. Ginny averted her eyes. She didn’t want to cry, not now. Not now.

They were all stepping forward, closer to the coffins, although she didn’t know why. She had to tighten her hand on Draco’s, and almost physically drag him forward. Shacklebolt asked Harry if he wanted to say a few words, but Harry merely shook his head, to her relief. Her mother was crying again, her face in her husband’s shoulder, Mr Weasley’s face a mask as he stared at the trio of coffins. _This is a fact_ , she told herself. _Three people dead. A child orphaned. Families broken. We just have to accept it_. How could dwelling on all this help?

The three coffins were sinking into the ground and transforming into marble tombs, equally spaced. Shouldn’t Tonks and Lupin be closer together? _No_ , she decided. _That would leave… my brother… on his own. They should all be together._ It was hard to breathe then, and her right hand felt strange, locked around the dainty hand of Angharad Marsh, instead of Draco Malfoy’s. Or Harry’s.

She was strangely glad of Malfoy’s company when the ceremony ended, and the endless conversations began. She had something to say, somebody to introduce, mechanically and repetitively, and glare at them if they asked too many questions. She had an excuse not be comforting her parents, when many others were crowding around them sympathetically. And when the hand in hers tugged suddenly, it was a relief to hurry away from the crowd, telling everybody that Angharad was too upset to stay, and make for her room.

She found she couldn’t look at him while he transformed, but stayed at her bedroom window, staring out at the sun-flattened hills, trying not to look down, to where the guests were milling over the orchard, gathering around the white-covered tables, eating, drinking. _How can they eat at such a time? Or drink?_

She could sense him moving behind her, and his hand came up to where the vial of Hermione’s Polyjuice Potion lay on her desk. She stayed his hand, shook her head, then turned to look at him. “We’re not going out there again,” she said levelly. His long white fingers uncurled, slowly, and pulled away. He sat once more on her bed.

She was horror-struck then: Where was he going to sleep? There were no rooms free for him anywhere in the house. Then she realised that _he_ would have to stay here, that _she_ would have to sleep somewhere else. On a sofa somewhere. _Angharad’s upset_ , she could hear herself saying _. She needs peace and quiet…_

But people didn’t leave: Late in the still-stifling evening, dropping with fatigue, she ventured downstairs once more, and every downstairs room was full of people, sitting, standing, talking endlessly. And clusters of people were still outside, heads together, a horde of insomniacs. There was nowhere for her to go, apart from back upstairs to her room. Draco, damn him, was lying on her bed, his eyes closed, and it was a grumpy pleasure to drag him off her bed, his eyes opening in surprise, and take his place. She tore a blanket off her bed and threw it at him. He moodily lay down on the floor and wrapped himself in the blanket. His eyes widened when she dragged out her wand, but she was out of choices here.

“ _Petrificus Totalis_!” she hissed, and his look of shock became frozen. With a mixture of pleasure and guilt she climbed under the covers. She was still wearing her dress robes, which were stiff and uncomfortable, but could see no way of changing out of them with Malfoy there. Her feelings of guilt increased when she realised the bed was easily wide enough for two, but she hardened her heart, turned over and was asleep almost immediately.

She awoke in the middle of the night, hideously hot, dripping with sweat beneath the dress robe. There was nothing for it. She peered into the gloom beside the bed, but couldn’t even see Malfoy. She stared into the darkness for any sign that Malfoy was awake, listening to his breathing that seemed to fill the room, as she wrestled as quietly as she could to pull the robe up and over her head. The relief was immediate, and she sighed with relief as she dropped the robe next to the bed. Resisting the temptation to remove her underwear as well, she lay back down and turned over.

Angharad was lying in the bed next to her, on top of the bedclothes, apparently asleep, entirely naked.

With a scream, Ginny catapulted herself out of bed. She ducked to snatch up her robe and hold it in front of herself, then wrestled her wand out of the robe pocket and held it under his nose. 

“GET…” she began loudly, then in an urgent whisper hissed “ _Get out of my bed!_ And get your effing _clothes_ on!”

She could hear voices, out on the landing, questioning ones in different tones. She could recognise her father’s voice.

“ _What are you playing at_?” she hissed angrily at Angharad. Malfoy. 

“I was too hot,” he said. “It’s cooler up here. I took some more Potion…”

“ _Do that again, and I’ll_ …” she began, and it was a relief, somehow, when someone hammered on her door, because she was out of threats, strangely.

“Ginny!” called Mr Weasley. “What is it? Are you all right in there?”

“It’s fine…!” she started, but then the door was opening. Instinct made her drop her robe, vault towards the door and slam it shut, but her father’s head was in the way, and he squawked with pain. 

“Sorry!” she called. “Sorry! I… tripped!” She sprung her foot against the door and pulled it open the minimum necessary.

“What was the noise?” asked her father, his voice muffled. He was clutching his face. Even in the dim light of his lit wand she could see a red vertical line down his forehead. 

“I… I… A dream! A nightmare! Are you OK?”

He looked at her in amazement through his uncovered eye. “Just a nightmare?” he asked.

“Just a nightmare,” she echoed. She could see Ron, and Harry now, his face shadowed, standing behind her father, and Mrs Weasley coming up the stairs. Instinctively she pushed the door further closed.

“Ginny…?” began her mother.

“I’m fine!” Ginny called out. “I’m fine! Sorry! Good night!” She closed the door completely and leaned against it, breathlessly.

“Night?” said Ron’s voice, through the door. “Morning, more like…”

“Everybody back to bed,” said Mrs Weasley, firmly, an echo of her normal self. 

“I could use some breakfast…” said Ron, hopefully.

“Bed!” repeated Mrs Weasley.

Ginny listened to the receding footsteps and then turned around. Angharad was meekly sitting on the floor and wrapping the blanket around her bare form. 

“ _What do you think you’re doing?”_ Ginny snarled, tailing off into a hiss.

Malfoy shrugged again. “Couldn’t sleep,” he said, unrepentantly.

“Right!” she stormed as quietly as she could. “Get out of here!”

“And go where?”

“Have it your way!” she hissed in anger. “ _Petrificus Totalis_! And if you do that again it’ll be an Unforgivable! Got that?”

_At least he’s talking now_ , she said to herself as her heartrate dropped to normal. She made herself sit up in bed this time, so she could keep an eye on him - and glare at him - but as soon as the adrenaline had drained from her, her eyelids were like lead weights. She gave up the struggle after a while, but stayed propped up for the rest of the night, her neck agony by the time the sun rose, while Malfoy slumbered peacefully on the floor.

Nothing would have been more welcome to Ginny the following morning than to stay in bed and sleep, but as soon as she heard voices downstairs she made herself get out of bed and dress. Malfoy was awake too, and looking at her as she pulled on her clothes, but she made herself pretend he didn’t exist. 

When she was dressed, she pointed her wand at him, threateningly. “You stay here,” she ordered.

“Breakfast?” he asked hopefully.

“You’ll be lucky,” she snarled at him. She wanted to take the Polyjuice Potion with her, just to make sure he didn’t take any and start wandering around the house, but her pockets were far too small. She stabbed the forefinger of her free hand at the bottle. “Don’t touch!” she hissed at him, then left.

Her mother seemed almost normal: Mrs Weasley was hurrying irritably between an odd collection of loudly chattering guests who had taken up residence in her kitchen, while she made heroic amounts of breakfast for everyone. Harry and Ron weren’t present, and it seemed a good guess that they were still asleep. There was no sign of Hermione, either. Ginny managed to snare a sausage from a passing frying pan and devour it, and wasn’t even shouted at as a result. Feeling better, she stacked a plate with more food and returned to her room.

“It’s OK at the moment,” she said as they shared the plateful. “But as soon as the guests are gone you’ll have to go.”

“Go where?” asked Malfoy. She shot him a suspicious look, but he wasn’t being sarcastic, as far as she could tell. 

“Wherever you like,” she said shortly. “Stay with friends?” she suggested.

He looked at her broodingly. “My side’s just lost a war,” he said eventually. “I expect the survivors won’t be sitting at home waiting for the Aurors to arrive.”

“Well, you can’t stay here,” she said, fearfully.

“Please,” he said.

She opened her eyes at that in surprise, but waved her arms at him in futile anger. “No room!” she said.

“The floor…” he started.

“No! No way!” she said as firmly as she could. 

“You could tie me up at night,” he said. “You’d be perfectly safe.”

“ _Safe_? Until my mother comes in here! Or my father, or anyone else!”

“Then you keep your door locked! I make sure I take Polyjuice,” he said. “During the day, at least. And _you_ make sure I do, too…”

“No!”

“So what’s changed?” he asked, quietly. “You’ve stayed with me until now. Looked after me.”

“Looked…? I’ve made sure you haven’t attacked me! That’s all!”

“And kept me alive,” he said. “Remember?”

“OK! But nothing more! And I’ve nearly got you killed as well! _Remember_?”

He looked at her calmly. “If my parents hadn’t died,” he said. “They would probably be in Azkaban by now. And I will be, as soon as they find me.”

“What have _you_ done?” she demanded. “Almost nothing!”

“I’ve done enough,” he said. “To the victor go the spoils. And the rules.”

“And I’m meant to hide you? And not end up in prison as well?”

“You won’t ever go to jail,” he said, shaking his head. “Daughter of the Weasleys? The family of heroes and martyrs? Consort of the _Chosen One_?”

She was on her feet, her wand in her fist, then made herself sit down once more. But she couldn’t frame any words.

“That’s what everybody will say, isn’t it?” asked Malfoy softly. “You’re safe.”

“Until they find out about you!” she managed.

“Even then,” he said. “You’ve studied history. And history never changes. Victory protects you.”

_Give me a wand and an enemy,_ Ginny told herself repeatedly, _and I’d bet on me any day._ _But when it’s about an enemy who wants to be a friend, and endless slippery words, then I’m lost. I always lose arguments,_ she told herself angrily, thinking of her mother, and her father, and Harry. 

She couldn’t persuade Malfoy to leave, and the prospect of admitting to her parents, as the hours passed, and then the days, that she was harbouring the son of Lucius Malfoy, Voldemort’s chief henchman, grew ever more hideous. 

_I’ll just have to go through with this_ , she told herself. _I have no choice. Not now._

She grew used to Malfoy. She realised now he had many reasons to behave himself, and although in private he would let his sarcasm bite, the moment she lost her temper with him he would retreat, be conciliatory and apologetic, leaving her nowhere to put her anger. He was virtually silent when they both ventured out of her room, and would only mutter quietly to any question put to him, leaving Ginny to translate for him. He helped her with a fictional life story for Angharad, and tales of their friendship in the past. He was her ally in all things, and in the face of depressed and moody parents - and Harry and Ron’s grim stares - and even with Hermione as an unwilling accomplice, she needed a friend.


	7. The Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

A strange owl arrived at breakfast one morning, and Ginny couldn’t prevent herself from twitching. What part of her past, she found herself wondering, had caught up with her? But the contents were unexpected.

“We’ve been invited over to France,” said Mr Weasley, emerging in surprise from his chronic introspection. “For a holiday.”

It was just the family now, plus Hermione and Angharad. (It was strange, Ginny thought, how Malfoy could be different people: himself within her room, yet Angharad outside it.) George was joining them for meals now, even though he remained silent and withdrawn. Ginny hoped he would return to the joke shop soon; Not that she wanted rid of him, but he badly needed the distraction. Her mother was very down, now that the crowds had gone and Percy was no longer around to be shouted at. Mrs Weasley had time now to mourn Fred properly, and Ginny found herself longing to be told off instead. Mr Weasley spent his time either trying to cheer up his wife or sitting in distracted silence in his shed.

“A holiday?” asked Ron, impressed. “Who’s inviting us, Dad?”

“The Delacours,” replied Mr Weasley. “They have a place in the country, they’re saying, and want us to join them. Bill and Fleur are going to be there.” He turned to Harry. “You’re invited too, Harry. And you, Hermione,” he added. His eyes strayed to Angharad. “And I’m sure…”

“Angharad has to go soon,” interposed Ginny hastily. 

Mr Weasley brightened. “Really? That’s a shame. I’m sure the Delacours wouldn’t mind, Angharad…”

“But _all_ of us?” asked Ron. 

“Well, I expect Percy and Charlie will be working,” replied Mr Weasley. “But it’s a big house, they say.”

Unexpectedly, Ginny found the idea hugely appealing. The thought of escaping everything here, of leaving her mistakes behind her, gave her a great feeling of release. She would be forced to deal with the Malfoy situation, apart from anything else, and perhaps away from him she could deal better with the guilt she felt towards him.

“When?” she asked. “When would we be going?”

“And where in France?” Hermione asked. From her pleased expression, she too found the thought a liberating one. Perhaps she realised Ginny was going to be dumping Malfoy.

“Beginning of August,” said Mr Weasley, looking at Hermione uncertainly. “Why, that’s less than two weeks, now. What do you think, Molly? It would be nice to cheer ourselves up.”

Mrs Weasley frowned, and opened her mouth, presumably to disagree, but then George spoke up. “Can I take Angelina?” he asked, and then there was no possibility of argument, by anybody.

In her room afterwards, Malfoy was the first to broach the subject.

“You want me to go now?” he asked. He was sitting on the bed once more – they shared it as a matter of course now, but with a line of pillows separating them, and a piece of enchanted rope to tie his wrists – and she was staring out of the window again.

“We can ask the Delacours,” she said, trying to sound positive about the idea. 

There was a pause. “No,” he said. “You want me out of here.”

“Where will you go?” she asked, still unable to turn and look at him.

“Hogwarts,” he said, surprising her. “I’ve enrolled for the N.E.W.T.s refresh course.”

“Won’t they arrest you there?” she asked.

“I sent an owl to McGonagall,” he said. “She says it’s OK.”

She turned then, in surprise. “An _owl_? How did you manage that?”

“That creepy old owl of yours,” he said, offhandedly. “Took days.”

“You sent _Errol_ all the way to Hogwarts and back?” she said, angry and aghast. “You could have killed him!”

“He’s an owl,” said Malfoy, coolly. “It’s what they do.”

“I think you’d better go,” she said, quelling her anger. “Before you kill someone else. When’s this course?”

“Oh, it’s already started. Last week.”

“So why didn’t you leave then?” Her anger was overflowing now. 

“You’d miss me,” he said. 

“Just… _leave_!” she said, enraged.

“Now? What will you tell your parents? Angharad can’t Apparate, remember. Too young.”

“This afternoon! I’ll say I’m delivering you to bloody Wales personally, OK?”

She flounced out of the room before she got even angrier. She stomped out of the house, into the garden, and relieved her rage by drop-kicking a watering can, which flew across the lawn before tumbling across the grass, clanking noisily. It turned out there was a pair of gnomes in there, who climbed out, dizzily, swore luridly at her and stomped off in their turn.

She stayed outside all morning, and had to make herself go and fetch Malfoy for lunch, and announce that Angharad was going to stay with her grandmother in Abergavenny. After that it seemed entirely normal to return to her room with him before he left.

“I didn’t realise about the owl,” said Malfoy. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not about the effing owl,” snapped Ginny, cross once more. 

He laughed, incredulously. “You _are_ going to miss me!” he said in surprise.

“ _No_!” she shouted. Then more quietly, “No.”

Malfoy was frowning at her. “So…?” 

She couldn’t find a reply. And she couldn’t meet his eyes.

“So…” he said after a pause. “See you at Hogwarts?”

“I…”

“Only a month, now,” he said, brightly. “Will you be talking by then?” 

She wanted to kick him then. Or Bat Bogey him.

“I haven’t…” she started, but she couldn’t continue. He waited.

“What?” he asked eventually.

“I haven’t said sorry,” she said after another gap. “To you.”

“To me?”

“I promised your mother…” she began, then stopped once more.

“My mother?” he replied, puzzled. “When?”

“At their house…”

“Her portrait, do you mean?” he asked. He face was white once more. “Was this when you went back into the house?”

She nodded. That was OK, wasn’t it? Just to nod? But then she found she could speak. She reached into her wand pocket and brought out his mother’s wand. “I went back…” she said. “For this. For you. You need a wand…”

His hand came out gently, and took the wand from her frozen hand. “Thank you,” he said. He didn’t move, but stayed in front of her, looking down at the wand in his hand.

“She said…” she started. “She said I wasn’t to tell you. But I have to… so I can… say… Say sorry.”

He remained silent, giving her nothing to argue against. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

“When… When the ghost animals attacked us… When they came to life…” she said, painfully. “I saw… I watched… some animals… jump into a painting. Of a horse. And… And… They must have gone to your parent’s house… the Manticore… and other animals… they jumped through… and…. And they must have attacked them...” Her eyes were locked on the whiteness in his skin as he gripped the wand. Would he bring up the wand, and use it on her?

“I’m sorry,” she said then. “It was my fault. I brought the cat-insect through the barrier. It couldn’t have got into your parents’ house, so they used the paintings. I’m so sorry.”

She wanted to look at him then, but her eyes were blurry, and she couldn’t lift her head. After an age, he stepped away from her, there was a crack that made her flinch, and he had gone.

“She’s gone,” she found herself saying to her mother when she went downstairs. “She was too upset to say goodbye to everyone.”

Mrs Weasley’s listlessness turned briefly to suspicion. “Not even thank you?” she demanded.

“Oh,” said Ginny, guiltily. “She asked me to say thank you. And goodbye. She’s… still upset.”

Her mother sighed heavily. “It didn’t matter, really,” she said. “Just one more mouth to feed. But such a strange girl. Perhaps I should talk to her grandmother…”

“No!” said Ginny hastily. “Best to leave them. For now,” she added.

Mrs Weasley looked at her in puzzlement, through narrowed eyes. “Well, if you’re sure… Anyway, now you’re not mooning in your room anymore, perhaps you can clean out the chickens. And tidy your room?”

It was harder without Malfoy there. It wasn’t just about cleaning chickens, and gardening, and making up beds. Thankfully, her mother was slowly returning to her normal self now, but that meant that Ginny wasn’t allowed to stay in her room, and even when she could escape there it was strangely lonely. Hermione had gone home, to be with her parents until the holiday in France, and Ron, typically, grew grumpy in her absence. Harry and her brother seemed to spend an unhealthy amount of time together, muttering to each other.

 _Harry must be bored too_ , she realised. _After spending the past seven years saving the world_ , she told herself in annoyance, _being stuck at The Burrow must be pretty tedious_. At least with the Dursleys he had his own little war to wage all summer holidays, while here he could only loaf around. Even Quidditch out in the back garden wasn’t an attraction now, without Hermione to complete the foursome. And he still wasn’t talking to Ginny, and Ginny didn’t feel like talking to _him_ , not right now.

 _Perhaps he even set up Ron’s arguments with me_ , she told herself in annoyance. _If he can’t control me directly..._

“Lucky you,” said Ron at one low point. “Going back to Hogwarts. All fun now, eh?”

“If I want my N.E.W.T.s,” Ginny told him coolly, “I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Last year was a total disaster, with half the teachers missing. And spending most of my time in detention, and then stuck here. And what about you? Aren’t you going back for N.E.W.T. extension classes?”

“N.E.W.T. whats?” asked Ron in puzzlement. 

“Extension classes. For people who missed last year,” said Ginny. “Like you did. Remember?”

“Don’t need them,” said Ron, weightily. “They’ll take us on as Aurors anyway. Got the experience, see? Defeating V-Voldemort and the Death Eaters beats a load of N.E.W.T.s.” Ron still couldn’t mention Voldemort’s name without stuttering, however cool he tried to look saying it.

“Oh?” she snapped. “Did it singlehanded, did you?”

“So who’s doing extension classes, then?” pursued Ron.

“No idea,” shot back Ginny, nervous now. “So, the Aurors are taking anybody now, are they?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Ron, suspiciously.

“Do you think they’d take me?” she asked in return.

His mouth fell open. “You’re still at school,” he said flatly.

“ _You_ missed last year! Why can’t _I_?”

“That’s entirely different!” said Ron. 

“Different how?”

“You’re still a year young,” pointed out Ron, crossly. “And how many Aurors are they going to take on? Going to be quite a crowd, at this rate. _And_ they’re going to be stretched training the ones they do have,” finished Ron, jerking a thumb at his own chest. “Give it a year, Ginny. Pass your exams, apply then.”

“What makes you so sure,” she snarled, full of rage now, “That they’re going to take _you_?”

“Take me…?” Ron was dumbfounded. “’Course they’ll take me. You think they’ll take _you_ ahead of _me_?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Ginny, alarmed that her mouth was taking over again. “I’d forgotten you have _special qualifications_. Of course! The Chosen One’s _best buddy_! Who else are they going to choose?”

Ron’s long and knobbly forefinger was under her nose now, but she didn’t care. “You’re… You’re bang out of order, Ginny!” he said hotly. 

“Oh, go and…”

“What’s going on?” asked Harry’s voice from the doorway.

Ron tossed his head and smirked, annoyingly. “My little sister here wants to be an _Auror_ ,” he said with unpleasant irony. “Who’d have thought it? Looks like we’re going to get crowded out, Harry!”

Harry was looking at her now, something he seemed to have avoided doing for weeks now. “An Auror? _You_?” he asked her.

“Oh… Eat dung, the pair of you!” she shouted and stormed off to her room. At least Malfoy didn’t patronise me, she told herself as she glared out of the window. She could see a gnome trying to uproot one of her father’s favourite peonies, so she crossly seized a glass paperweight and aimed it like a missile at the miscreant. It missed by a couple of feet, but the gnome gave up on the peony and bolted for cover. Then she had to _Accio_ the paperweight back before anyone noticed.

A few minutes later there was a tentative knock on the door. “Ginny?” Harry’s voice.

“Leave me alone!”

“You want to be an Auror?” he asked, through the door.

She couldn’t find a reply, polite or otherwise.

After a pause, he spoke again. “Great idea,” he said. Another pause. “You’d be good,” he added. Then somehow spoiled it by adding: “If you’re sure that’s what you want to do.”

“I’ve got a headache,” she said through the door, loudly and untruthfully.

Harry ignored that, perhaps wisely. “But you need to go back to school first,” he said.

“Harry!” she shouted. “Stop _protecting_ me!”

“I’m not!” he called back, in amazement. “I…”

“Then leave me alone!” she shrieked. “Let me fight my own battles!”

“ _Battles_? _What_ battles?” he asked in confusion.

“ _WHAT_ battles??” she shouted, stung. “Everything’s a battle at the moment! You, Ron, Mum, Dad…!” She knew she was being unfair now, but it was hard to stop.

“Ginny, calm down!” he called. “Look! Go and see Dawlish! Ask him about starting a year early! Or do you want me to talk to him?”

“ _No_!”

“Send him an owl, then! I’m sure Ron will lend you Pig…”

“Is _Pig_ spying on me as well now?” she demanded, unreasonably. “My, you do have your _possessions_ well trained!”

Having dug herself an excessively large hole with Harry, it was extremely difficult to climb out of it. Even when there was no door between them, they avoided conversation with each other, or even eye-contact. 

All I have to do, she fretted, is ask Harry to help. That’s all.

But she couldn’t make herself do it.

Not that it mattered, as it turned out. At dinner that evening, Mr Weasley announced they were all going to have to travel up to the Ministry the following day. “All new regulations,” he explained. “I’m sure they’ll change them back eventually, but just for now, after all the excitement…”

Only her father, Ginny decided, could describe a lethal end-of-the-world conflict as excitement.

“ _What_ new regulations?” asked Mrs Weasley, fretfully.

“Foreign travel, my dear,” said her husband. “You need Portkey authorisation.”

“Can’t we travel by Floo Powder?” queried Mrs Weasley.

Mr Weasley raised his eyebrows, manically. “Now, _that’s_ an even bigger box of Flobberworms,” he said, enthusiastically. “Believe me, a Portkey is easier. And somebody tells me that Ginny wants to ask Dawlish about early entry to the Auror course!”

You could hear a pin drop, but only for the time it took Mrs Weasley to wind herself up to maximum, and suddenly become her normal self.

“ _WHAT_!” she snarled, rounding on Ginny.

“It was just an idea!” Ginny blurted in panic, and was immediately annoyed with herself. “Anyway,” she added, “Ron was allowed to miss his last year…”

“THERE WAS A WAR ON!” stormed Mrs Weasley. 

“Yeah,” said Ginny, mutinously. “But it’s not over yet…”

“ _It is for you_! _You_ are going back to Hogwarts on September first! And you are going to get decent grades at the end of the year, or there will be more _war_ than _you_ have the taste for!”

“Mum…”

“I’m not arguing!” growled Mrs Weasley. “It’s not open for discussion!”

“But if Dawlish…”

“Dawlish knows what’s good for him,” said Mrs Weasley in an ominous tone.

Ginny looked over at Harry for the first time, hoping for some support from him, but he looked too frightened to speak. _Voldemort is one thing_ , Ginny told herself gloomily. _My mother is quite another._


	8. The Map

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

They used Floo Powder to travel directly to the ministry the following morning. Despite Mrs Weasley’s ear-splitting efforts, they weren’t particularly early, and by the time they arrived, they thudded straight into the back of a huge queue that filled the atrium. And there they waited, for an age. The long wait was only punctuated by even later arrivals thumping into the back of them, and Mr Weasley bobbing up and down to see over the heads of the crowd and shouting hellos and pleas to anyone he recognised. 

Eventually Mr Weasley abandoned then to go and find someone, and Ginny swiftly followed him, stonily avoiding Mrs Weasley’s eyes and then her shouted orders to return immediately.

Out of the queue itself, the Ministry was less unbearable, although there were plenty of employees hurrying about, dodging a blizzard of paper planes.

“Ha ha!” cried Mr Weasley cheerfully. “Paperwork! Never seen so much! It’ll settle down though! Back to normal in a week or so!” He turned to look at her briefly in puzzlement. “Shouldn’t you be waiting with your mother?” he asked, but his attention was soon on a familiar face in the distance. “Perkins! Hello, Perkins! How’s the new job? Say what? Can’t hear you! Perkins! Perkins? Oh, he’s gone… You’d think peace would be a _peaceful_ time, wouldn’t you? Ha ha! I’ve never seen Perkins so _driven_!”

They were at the lifts now, and they had to queue for those as well. When some lifts appeared, they were jammed full of paper planes, and seemed to explode as soon as the doors opened. Planes would fill the air in all directions, allowing the ones at the back to escape, and then the remainder would jam themselves back in. There was a similar two-dimensional effect with the lifts that were full of people, but Mr Weasley, wilier than Ginny expected, managed to ride one of the return waves into a waiting lift, towing her with him, to the annoyance of some of the erstwhile occupants.

It was still a trying journey: At each floor it was all too easy to be swept out of the lift and not regain their places, and travelling six floors needed three different lifts. But eventually they reached Level Two, where Mr Weasley’s office was to be found. And Auror Headquarters shared the same floor. Ginny had imagined staging a separation from her father whilst in the lift, not realising his office shared a floor with her planned destination. She toyed with the idea of going up an extra floor, but didn’t dare risk it. Even now, in her final year at Hogwarts, she was shorter than most of the other lift occupants, and she decided she could easily spend the rest of her day in a lift, without her father’s hand to anchor and extract her. 

It was quieter on this level, with only the occasional paper plane for company. How could she escape from her father now? 

“Now if I can only find someone…” muttered Mr Weasley, and he darted off down a side corridor, seeming to forget about her entirely. Dizzily counting her luck, she retraced her steps towards the signs for Auror Headquarters.

Instead of the cubicles she could see elsewhere, the Auror office was a huge open space, stretching into the distance, with endless shabby office desks and chairs squeezed randomly together. But the area was empty. She couldn’t see a single figure here. No, not quite true: In the distance she could see a head bent over one of the desks, so she threaded her way in that direction through the maze of desks. She frequently found herself down little cul-de-sacs, where there was no alternative apart from retracing her steps and seeking another route – or climbing over one or two desks - to keep herself moving in the right direction.

When she was within four or five desks of her quarry she tried calling out, but he – she could see it was a he now – didn’t seem to notice, and kept his head down however loudly she called. In annoyance, she hoisted herself up onto the nearest desk, stood and used the remaining desks like stepping stones to reach him.

She jumped down beside him, out of breath now. “Hi!” she said. He brought his head up, twisted it in her direction and looked at her in amazement.

“Hello!” she said, with a mixture of pleased achievement and annoyance. “I’m a human. I bet you haven’t seen one of us around here for a while, have you?”

From the look of wide-eyed shock and his repeated examination of her, that could have been true. “Hello,” he said eventually. He seemed barely older than her, with a round, pink face and droopy blond hair, and a worried expression.

“I’m looking for an Auror to talk to,” she said.

More wide-eyed inspection of her appearance. Had she slopped marmalade down her robe? “Well,” he said eventually. “You’ve come to the right place.”

“Where is everybody?” she asked.

He looked around then, still with that air of continuing surprise. “Gone, mostly,” he said eventually, when he had inspected the entire room.

“Gone?”

“On,” he said.

“On?”

He looked uncomfortable. “Well,” he said eventually. “Dead. Most of them.”

Her feelings of jocular annoyance suddenly seemed hideously inappropriate. “They died?” she asked in horror. “What happened?”

He looked hunted and worried. “Well… in the battle, most of them. Outside Hogwarts. And before. Outnumbered,” he volunteered.

“But they were _Aurors_ …” 

“Trainees, most of us,” he said. 

“ _Trainees_?” she echoed, aghast. “What happened to the proper Aurors?”

“They…”

“Died,” she completed with him. “But that’s terrible!”

He nodded, worriedly. “The Minister was recruiting all he could…”

“Which Minister?”

“Scrimgeour, of course,” he said. “There were hundreds of us… Then I was off sick. When I got back, there was no-one here, almost. Thicknesse had gone by then as well, but I think he got rid of a lot. They ended up fighting on both sides, you see. Awful.”

“Are there really no others?”

He looked around, vaguely. “Well, a few. In a meeting, probably.”

It was hard not to sound selfish then. “So… If I offered myself as a trainee Auror, I’d be quite likely to get in?”

He looked at her in blank astonishment. “Pretty likely,” he said eventually. “I suppose.”

“So who’s in charge?” she asked. Am I bullying this guy? she wondered. A horrifying thought struck her: “That’s not you, is it?”

He looked like a tortoise, she tardily realised, and even more so when he tried to pull his head down into his shoulders. But he shook his head.

“Well, is Dawlish still here?” she demanded.

A slow nod.

“Where?” She amended her question, to sound less hectoring. “Do you know where?”

His eyes swivelled to the side of the open space, where there was a line of doors. “In his office,” he said.

Ginny could see no obvious path in that direction. “Well,” she said, “I might as well walk across the desks again,” she said.

“I usually Apparate,” he volunteered. “But you have to have permission.”

She hoisted herself onto the desk next to his, and then stood. How to say goodbye? she wondered. “I’m Ginny, by the way,” she said.

“Robert,” he said eventually, staring at her once more.

“Well, Robert,” she said. “Thanks for the help. See you around…” She had to step across a wide gap onto the next desk, but then it was easier, with the desks mostly jammed together. When she reached the edge of the desks, she jumped off. She turned around to find Robert, but his head was down once more. She waved anyway and then turned her attention to the line of offices.

The nearest door led to a meeting room, containing a squashed-together group of tables and chairs that closely resembled the area outside, but again empty. 

The office next door was also empty, apart from stacks of files over every surface, and a handful of paper planes that seemed to be lost. 

The next office, inexplicably, was entirely empty of any furniture at all, and only two twitching paper planes decorated the floor, but the entire room seemed to emit a low growling noise. She decided not to linger, passed another empty desk- and file-littered office, and then found an office labelled Chief Auror. 

To her amazement – and delight – the office was occupied. She recognised Dawlish, who seem to have put on weight since the funeral. He was sitting behind the desk, with a scroll in his hand, but staring into space. At least this looked like a proper office, she thought: There was a jumbled pile of scrolls on the desk, but the room was clear apart from that, and some handsome cabinets lined one wall. 

Dawlish turned his head and froze, staring at her in disbelief. Did he remember her?

“Uh… Hello,” she managed. “My name’s Ginny Weasley…”

“What are you doing here?” he asked, in amazement.

“I was just… I was wondering…” she began. “Whether, whether… I could get a job here?”

“A _job_?”

“As an Auror. Trainee,” she added.

He stared at her in silence for some time. 

“It’s a simple question,” she said, slightly irritated. “I know you’re short on numbers, and I thought…”

He found his voice. “Thought what?” he asked, still staring at her.

“Well, that I could skip my last year at Hogwarts… and start early?”

He was still gaping at her in amazement. A smile – a deathly, fake kind of smile – started, but then he shook his head, slowly. “You must think I’m stupid,” he whispered.

“Stupid?” she echoed in amazement. Could he read minds? “No… Not at all… I just thought it would be good…” she trailed off. “Being an Auror.”

He was still shaking his head. Ginny could feel her heart sinking, through the floor and out of sight. “Why not?” she asked. That sounded like a whine, she thought in annoyance. “Tell me why not!” she said. 

A manic gleam appeared in his eyes. “Tell you? Oh, no. Oh, no!” he hissed. He stood slowly. She’d forgotten how tall he was. She was actually afraid now. Was he mad? Confunded? Imperiused?

“Look, OK, don’t worry about it,” she said, fearfully. “I’ve got to go now…”

He was moving around the desk now, stalking her as if she was prey. “You really want to know?” he said, with an unconvincing calm. “Let me show you…”

“No…” she said, and turned away, but he had her arm, and she was crying out, and then she was screaming, as the world twisted into darkness.

In her terror, she didn’t know what to expect - A cell of some kind, somewhere her cries for help wouldn’t be heard – but she was in a vast gloomy room. There were several strange dark shapes in front of her, but they weren’t animals. In several places there were small pools of light, illuminating… what?

A loud, concerned voice behind her. “What…? Mr Dawlish! You should have warned us. Underwood?” The last word was a call. There was a scurry of movement from one of the pools of light. “Your key should only be used in an emergency…” said the voice, more calmly. Dawlish was still holding onto her arm, painfully, but she twisted around. The speaker was a thin-faced, stubbled, unappetising-looking middle-aged man. 

“I need a viewing,” said Dawlish, brusquely. 

The other nodded towards her, in mystification. “Is she authorised?”

“My authority,” said Dawlish, shortly.

Thin-face raised his eyebrows, but merely bowed slightly. “Of course.” He gestured behind her. “Use this one,” he said. “Beamish?” She could hear someone moving. “Will you need help?”

“No. Just some privacy.”

“As you wish. I will have to remain, however. _Muffliato_.”

Her ears seemed full of cotton wool, but she could still hear Dawlish’s heavy breaths. He manhandled her round and let go. She was standing in front of a strangely ornate brass machine, taller than a man, two or three times as wide. In the centre was a bulky telescope, with hand-sized wheels around it. Dawlish busied himself with some other controls to the left of the telescope, and the other man joined him, neither paying her any attention. She stepped forward and looked fearfully through the telescope eyepiece.

She was looking at a diagram. A map. It was parchment-coloured, and drawn in black ink. She could see rectangular lines. She realised she was looking at the plan of an ordinary house. As she watched, a stick figure appeared down a narrow passageway – no, a staircase – and turned through a doorway, into a room. There were shadowy shapes within the room, rectangles, mostly.

There was a label next to the figure, just like in Harry’s Marauder’s Map: Aidan Okafor, it said, to her amazement. Aidan was in her year, in Gryffindor, in fact, a cheerful dark-skinned boy with a skewed sense of humour. The figure seemed to merge with a rectangular shape and then to… fold… Was he sitting down?

“Why are you watching Aidan Okafor?” she asked, in horror.

“What?” This was thin-face. “Get away from there. That’s confidential!” 

She swung around to glare at him. “Why are you watching him?” 

“Because he’s a security risk,” said Dawlish. Thin-face put his hand up to argue, but then shrugged and turned back to the device.

“Aidan? No way!” said Ginny in amazement.

“His parents are Nigerian,” said Dawlish. “Nigeria, little girl, is a country far, far away whose interests aren’t the same as ours.”

“You’re _spying_ on him?”

“ _He_ may be a spy,” said Dawlish. “Or becoming one. Which would be treason.”

“That’s ridiculous!” she said in exasperation. “He’s sitting at home, minding his own business! That’s not treason!”

“Do you know his parents?” asked Dawlish. “Are you an expert on security?”

“No, but…” 

“Then you are ill-placed to judge,” he snapped. “Miss Weasley, you may not like the job we have to do. But you expect to be safe, and that means we have to do our job.” 

“That’s not doing your job, that’s snooping!” she said angrily. “He deserves his privacy!”

Dawlish was red-faced with anger now, but before he could speak thin-face interrupted him.

“Here,” he said. The machine whirred, grittily, then clicked.

There was an unpleasant smile on Dawlish’s face now. “Look again,” he said, sneering. “Is _this_ snooping?”

She looked through the eyepiece again, uncertainly.

Another house, but with strange angles. There was no movement she could see, but in one room there were two stick figures, apparently stretched out, within a shadowy rectangle. 

Ginny Weasley, said one stick figure.

The label next to the other figure said Draco Malfoy.

“No…” she said, fearfully.

Dawlish was breathing in her ear now. “Doesn’t that look like treason to you?” he asked, quietly, angrily.

Another stick figure appeared, on the landing outside her room. It approached her door, then seemed to hesitate, and didn’t move for some time. 

The label said Harry Potter.

As she watched, her heart thumping, the Draco Malfoy stick figure reached out an arm and placed it over her own stick figure, while outside on the landing Harry Potter stood, unmoving.


	9. The Lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

A holiday in France with her first and only love should have been a perfect time for Ginny, but she found it impossible now even to look Harry in the face. He seemed to avoid her too, which made things easier, despite hurting even more.

The Delacours’ summer villa was a substantial barn-shaped farmhouse sleeping under baking sun, next to a large rectangle of lawn, with few flowers. But down a rutted lane was a large pond, or small lake, where the entire party spent most of their time. Madame Delacour, dressed in elegant summer clothes, invariably lay on an embroidered blanket with her eyes closed, but every few hours she would casually flick her wand, and produce an extravagant picnic, full of delicious, unusually-herby food and wonderful wines, so it was a self-indulgent pleasure for everyone to gorge themselves full, and drink, then paddle, swim, sunbathe, and gossip. The house was in the South of France - near Arles, according to Hermione - and the weather was consistently hot, dry and sunny.

“What wonderful weather,” Hermione said when they first arrived. “It was… um, it was always raining when we were here last time.”

“Ah,” said Delacour, “We are near the Mediterranean here,” he said. “The weather is always good, now the Dementors have gone.”

“Dementors?” asked Harry, stiffening. He was still twitchy on occasion.

“Yes,” said Delacour. “There were many around here, but now they have gone elsewhere. We do not miss them.”

Ginny was wearing her school swimsuit, the one she’d annoyed Harry with, but Hermione, nervous yet thrilled, appeared in a tiny bikini, to the wide-eyed approval of Ron in particular. Mrs Weasley muttered that this wasn’t decent, but as Fleur habitually wore half that, with the casual approval of her parents, she couldn’t make her objections loud enough to hear.

Fleur and Bill prudently established themselves on their own tiny beach, further along the shore, and Harry, Ron and Hermione would stay together, wandering along the shore wrapped in their own conversation. Mrs Weasley soon got tired of her husband’s nervous whinny and endless anecdotes as he tried to talk to Mrs Delacour – Apolline, she asked them to call her – and was soon taking him for long walks across the surrounding fields, from which they would eventually return bright red and overheated, but Ginny refused point-blank to accompany them.

George and Angelina had also found themselves their own secluded beach, and seemed to spend their time snoozing on the sand, or wading in the shallows, their hands always locked together, the sight of which always made Ginny’s eyes prickle, and let her hope.

As Apolline genuinely seemed to spend her time asleep – she had a tiring career, her husband said - Ginny was largely left in the company of Monsieur Delacour.

“I’m sorry I have no other family here to entertain you,” he said courteously at one point, while his wife dozed on her blanket next to them. “Our younger daughter is at summer camp, and is desolated she cannot be here.”

As Gabrielle Delacour had been all over Harry like paint the last time they’d met, Ginny decided she personally didn’t mind at all.

“No, it’s fine,” said Ginny. “I’m enjoying talking to you.” Which was true enough. Monsieur Delacour seemed to know the world, and made her feel very ignorant. He intrigued her with his stories of his business – he was a potions ingredients importer, with sources and customers the world over - and tales of foreign magical animals and herbs and wizards gave him a glamour that fascinated her. And he distracted her from her thoughts, which were unpleasantly full of guilt, and uncertainty, and hatred. It was Dawlish she hated, and the thin-faced man, and the words of both of them that continued to plague her.

“So,” said Monsieur Delacour. “You. What are your dreams?”

“Excuse me?” Ginny answered, nervously, startled out of her reverie.

He waved a lazy hand from his cushioned lounger – no lying on the ground for Monsieur Delacour. “Your plans, your hopes… Things of that kind.”

“I don’t know. Not any more,” she replied, unsure what she could admit to. “I should have another year at school, but I wanted to be an Auror. But they won’t let me.” She hadn’t meant to tell him that. Had she said too much already?

Something small moved under Delacour’s chair, distractingly. “Truly?” he said, in puzzlement, but to her relief he didn’t quiz her further. “Although… is your British Auror department… what you expect?”

Ginny lurched to her feet. A little animal had stepped out from under Delacour’s chair, and she recognised it. Her wand was between her shoulder-blades, inside her swimsuit, and she reached over her shoulder and yanked it out, then pointed it at the cat-insect waddling towards her. Which spell had actually worked? “Get away from it!” she shouted.

"What?” exclaimed Delacour in surprise. “No!” He rose surprisingly quickly for such a portly individual, and pressed her wand hand down, and she wasn’t strong enough to prevent him. “What are you doing?”

“That’s a cat-insect!” shouted Ginny, trying to struggle out of his grasp. “Let go!”

“A what? That is a harmless animal, Jhinny. Don’t kill it!”

“Harmless? Are you sure?”

“Yes!” said Delacour. “They are common here. We call them… Fourrurmi. Like, a furry ant. They never harm anyone!”

Disturbed by all the noise, the cat-insect scampered back under Delacour’s chair.

“They eat snails, mice, things like that,” said Delacour. “Small insects. They are useful in a garden. And decorative. Not a threat.”

“I saw one…” began Ginny breathlessly. Her heart was tripping in fear, and only slowly returning to normal.

“Where?” Apolline Delacour was awake now, and sitting up.

“In Scotland! We nearly died!”

“ _Died_? Not possible!” insisted Delacour.

“It’s an ordinary animal?” asked Ginny, shakily. “You’re sure?”

“Positive!” answered Delacour.

Her hand was trembling as she pushed her wand back over her shoulder. “What was it doing in Scotland?” she asked.

“I do not know,” admitted Delacour. “Do you not normally have them?”

“Tell me everything, from the beginning,” Apolline instructed. There was a depth in her beautiful eyes that Ginny had never seen there before. Ginny did her best. She avoided mentioning Draco’s name, but Madame Delacour wasn’t satisfied.

“Who were these people?” she asked. “The ones that died, the parents?”

Ginny sighed. “They were Death Eaters,” she admitted. “The son was at Hogwarts, which was how I knew him. We… got talking… after the battle at Hogwarts.”

Delacour tutted. “Is it wise to conduct an affair with a known Death Eater?” he asked, in puzzlement.

“It wasn’t an _affair_!” said Ginny, annoyed. “He was drunk, and I was looking after him!”

Apolline shushed them both. “So with their leader dead, someone wanted them dead as well,” she mused. “Who would that be?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Ginny. “But Draco doesn’t know either.” Then she could have bitten out her tongue.

“Merde!” said Delacour in amazement. “Excuse me… _Draco_? This is _Lucius Malfoy_ who is dead?”

She could only nod.

“And the son… He is a _friend_?”

Ginny had to avoid Delacour’s puzzled stare. “No! Not really. I did say…”

Apolline made a placating gesture. “My concern is this spell. The one that brings dead animals alive like you describe. I do not know this spell.”

Delacour looked uncomfortable. “My wife, she is an expert on these things.”

“Surely there are so many spells…” started Ginny.

“Yes,” said Apolline. “But wrapped like this, in an animal? That is different, I think.” She looked at Ginny. “And it was hard to destroy the Fourrurmi?”

“I tried to stab it first, but the blade wouldn’t go in,” Ginny said. Delacour hissed between his teeth, unhappily. “Then I tried all the spells I could think of. It was _Confringo_ that worked, I think. Or _Diffindo_. Or maybe it was both.”

Madame Delacour stood and stretched. “Well,” she said. “This is interesting, but I must go now and see to our dinner. You eat scallops? You know those?”

“I don’t know,” admitted Ginny. “But I’d like to try…”

“Good!” said Apolline. “Please entertain my husband. He hates holidays, and you must not let him be bored!”

Delacour continued to look troubled, and gazed after his wife as she left. Then he gathered his thoughts. “You have been to your Ministry, yes? Since the battle?”

Ginny was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Their… mood,” he suggested. “What were your thoughts when you were with your Aurors?”

She didn’t want to talk about her meeting with Dawlish and the others. “I didn’t meet many,” she hedged.

He leaned forward suddenly. “Ah! That is many people’s experience, I think!” 

His intensity surprised her. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“In a healthy country, the Auror department is a large enterprise, yes?”

“Do you have Aurors in France?” asked Ginny. 

Monsieur Delacour was offended by this question. “But of course! Simply because Voldemort was English, you people think this is your war, your victory. No. We have our own warriors, our own Aurors, excellent ones. We fought the same war as you. We all suffered, to defeat the common enemy.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ginny, quickly. “I didn’t think it would be the same here.” 

Delacour shrugged. “Like yours, our Aurors were at the forefront of the battle. They suffered many casualties. Many. We seek new warriors, and quickly. Our Chef d’Auron is experienced, but he is old now, and, I think, tired. Not ready, I believe, to build a new team, and will need help from us all. The Black Duke may have gone, but there are other enemies, many of them.”

“Black Duke? You mean Voldemort?”

“Certainly. He was our enemy, too. And yet… I worry about our capabilities but little, when I consider your Auror department. And if _they_ are weak, _our_ job becomes more difficult, much.”

“ _Your_ job?” Ginny asked in puzzlement.

He waved that away. “Our country’s. Our magical government’s. We must all be strong.”

Ginny thought worriedly about the almost empty desks at the Auror Department.

“And the rest?” Delacour asked then. “Perhaps it is not only the Aurors who ail.”

Frustration overrode discretion. “I don’t know! But the Auror department was almost empty! And the rest of the Ministry was totally clogged!” she said unhappily.

Delacour looked bemused. “Clogged? You mean, shoes?”

“No, paper planes! They use them for sending messages, inside the Ministry. But people as well. Nothing could move! And Kingsley… I like him, but…”

“He is not clever, perhaps?” suggested Delacour.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t think he’s the right person.”

“And your Department of Mysteries? Is that still strong?”

Ginny felt chilled then. Was he prying? Had she already said too much? “I don’t know,” she said eventually. “I don’t know anything about them,” she lied.

“So,” said Delacour, closing his eyes in thought, “We have a ministry paralysed from the top, their strong right arm crippled, their left arm unknown, so we can only hope they are competent. And you are worried?”

She felt stupid, then. “I didn’t say that.”

He shook his head. “But, yes. Your instincts are good, I think. And you say what you do not know.”

“Yes, but…” she started in frustration.

“But what?” he asked politely.

“They won’t take me,” she blurted. “They say they can’t…” Trust me, she was going to add, but she wasn’t meant to say anything, and didn’t want to confess to a stranger, either.

He looked at her, consideringly. “Who? Can’t what?”

“Dawlish,” she said, angrily. “He won’t take me.”

He nodded. “Ah.”

“And you agree with them,” she prompted, annoyed once more.

“No! Do you have so low an estimate of your own thoughts?” he asked. “Why can _I_ not agree with _you_ , instead? Remember, there are other places.”

“Other places? What do you mean?”

“For example, the Departmente d’Auron, in Paris,” he said. “They will accept you. They are sensible, they will take you, instantly.”

“What? Do you mean _now_?”

“My apologies. They will expect you to finish at your school first. But they will want you after that. Once you are ready for them, which will be hard.”

“I don’t understand…”

“You are young,” said Delacour. “You are strong. You are committed.”

“Maybe,” she allowed, in puzzlement.

“So you are not afraid of using the wand in two directions. So by day you will do your school work. By night you must learn French.”

“What? Don’t I sleep?”

“No, no! I speak in metaphor. Yes, you must sleep, you cannot be in two places at one time. But your time can be compressed.”

“You’re a merchant,” she said in confusion. “You said you were a merchant…”

“And so I am. But I am a patriot, too. And I know many people. I know who you should talk to.”

“I don’t understand,” said Ginny, feeling pressured now. “Why me? Is this because of Harry? Are you trying to recruit me?” she asked, unsteadily.

He looked amused. “No!” he said. “Not at all! This is about… _us_. All of us. You wish to be Auror, and your country does not think it needs you. We need Aurors, and you can help us. It is a simple equation, I think. And it is not… treason, or anything of that sort. We fight in the same direction. It would be everyone’s loss, at a time of great danger, if you are not an Auror soon.” 

“But Hogwarts doesn’t teach French,” she objected, dodging the implied compliment.

Delacour shrugged again. “That will be your first exertion. But first you must not rush. You must think: About what you want, and what you need. And of what you are capable. Of what you believe. All these are important! But let us say you decide you want to act, then send a message to our daughter. I will arrange a meeting for you. But in the meantime, you must learn our language. That will be a good test, I think, in hard learning. Perhaps you will change your mind then! Ah! Your parents return!”

Mr and Mrs Weasley were plodding unsteadily through the trees towards them. Both looked exhausted, her father between bright red and puce, and her mother tending towards grey.

“Mum!” called Ginny in alarm. “Dad! Are you OK?”

“Got lost,” admitted Mr Weasley with a gasp. “Really hot…”

“Please!” said Monsieur Delacour urgently. “You must sit! First, drinks for our guests…”

A casual flick from Delacour’s wand caused two garden chairs to drop out of nowhere, and then a small round table appeared between them, bearing a large jug of iced drink and two tumblers. The two tumblers filled as Ginny watched. Her father lowered her mother into one chair and collapsed into the other, and both reached out for a glass, as if it was their last act, and drank thirstily.

“I trust your walk was excellent all the same,” pronounced Delacour. “We have had a formidable talk, your daughter and I.” Ginny was suddenly terrified, and opened her mouth to speak, but her parents didn’t seem to be listening, to her relief. 

Harry, Ron and Hermione also appeared, the males in earnest conversation, Hermione looking martyred.

“Is there a problem, Air-mione?” asked Delacour politely. 

Strangely, Hermione seemed to like Delacour’s pronunciation of her name. She laughed. “They’re talking about Quidditch again,” she explained.

“Quidditch?” said Delacour, cordially, dismissively. “Ah, your British game. Of course you like it, you wish to sit on your bottoms while you compete, I think!”

Even Ginny, stressed as she was, had to laugh at Harry and Ron’s expressions of shock and annoyance.

“So what do you play here?” asked Ron, pugnaciously. “Football?”

“ _Football_?” echoed Delacour, amused. “Certainly not. _Choc_ , of course.”

“Shock?” queried Harry, blankly.

“Yes. It is er… clash, in English. You should play it. You will like it!” He got to his feet.

“Clash?” asked Hermione, nervously.

“Come,” said Delacour, beckoning to them as he marched along the beach to where his daughter and Bill were lying. Bill, leaning on one elbow, watched their arrival. Fleur was face down, apparently asleep. Delacour spoke to her in French, and received only a grunt in return. He shrugged at the rest of them, smiling, and continued to talk to – cajole – his daughter, who started with a moan, then a torrent of grumpy words. Eventually, she twisted over and pushed herself to her feet, lithe and agile, still spitting French at her father. 

Ron cleared his throat nervously, but Fleur swept an arm down, scooped up a light top and pulled it on to cover her upper half. In a similar elegant and angry movement, she scooped up her wand, which had been lying on the towel beside her. She bent each knee in turn, lifting that foot behind her and waving her wand over it. Dropping her wand back onto her towel, she turned casually and ran lightly down the little beach towards the water. As she reached the water’s edge she jumped, like a ballet dancer.

Instead of splashing into the shallows, she was running across the surface of the water, leaving a row of rings in the water as if from a stone spun across the surface. As her speed increased, the rings turned to little spurts of water, and then she was skating, leaving plumes of water, as she twisted and turned and pirouetted, her arms outstretched. Then she was running to gain speed once more, and turning so she was sliding backwards across the water, crossing her feet to curve her path across the pond.

It was a beautiful sight, and people cheered. Harry and particularly Ron had their mouths open.

“Like ice skating,” said Hermione, in wonder.

“Better than ice skating,” Ginny found herself saying. She itched to try. She turned to Delacour. “Can you show us…?”

Delacour smiled, but waved this away. “Fleur is the expert here. She will show you. Fleur?” he called.

They had to wait while Fleur continued to weave across the pond, but eventually she headed for the beach. She slid to a near stop in a spray of water as she reached the water’s edge, and then she was running gracefully across the sand. Her chest was heaving, bringing attention to the fact that her top was soaking wet and clinging. Hermione’s annoyed glare was switching rapidly between Ron and Fleur. Ginny found she could enjoy this; Harry could stare at what he liked, as far as she was concerned, and she was entertained at the idea of Harry in conflict with Bill. 

Not that Bill showed any concern: He was kissing Fleur lightly, their hands on each other’s sides.

“Can you show us?” Ginny repeated to Fleur, careless of their embrace in her fascination with this new sport. Fleur shrugged, slid from Bill’s arms, danced over to her wand and picked it up once more. 

“Your feet,” she said, and Ginny quickly turned her back on Fleur and lifted each foot in turn. Each sole suddenly felt icily cold, and she could no longer feel the warmth or the grittiness of the sand under her feet. 

“What do I do?” asked Ginny.

“Just run,” said Fleur. Ron was offering the soles of his feet, now, and then Harry, and Fleur cast a spell on each upraised foot in turn.

Ginny still wasn’t sure about this, but she backed away from the water’s edge until she reached the trees, then sprinted as hard as she could towards the water.

The tiny waves at the edge made it more difficult: One foot dragged into the water while the other stayed on top, nearly pulling her over, but in a welter of spray she managed to bring her submerged foot up onto the surface, and then she was running on water, laughing at the joy of it. 

“Don’t slow down!” she could hear Fleur shouting. “Or you will seenk!”

The opposite bank was nearing unnervingly fast. Turning wasn’t that easy: She was splashing water everywhere, her speed was decreasing, and she only just managed to drag herself round before she ran out of water. Then she could run freely once more. 

She could see the others running inelegantly across the surface as well, with Fleur skating between them calling instructions, a gazelle between elephants. The sight led Ginny to try skating instead, which was difficult too, and she had to intersperse frequent skipping steps to prevent herself tumbling forwards. Someone fell and crashed into the water, at such a speed they were bouncing across the pond like a skipping stone, before disappearing into the water. She headed in that direction and found it was Harry, trying to shake his hair out of his eyes and spitting out water. She took a couple of running steps just so she could skate past him, and give him a dazzling smile, as he swam doggedly towards the shore.

He glared at her, but there was no real anger there. She found her spirits soaring, and the world was a better place once more. In that excess of good feeling she tried Fleur’s backwards skating manoeuvre, but it wasn’t as easy as Fleur made it look, and she was back-somersaulting across the surface of the water, the impacts knocking the wind out of her. She came to rest in the water, her lungs paralysed, and immediately started to sink. It was a huge effort to twist into nothing and emerge on the sand once more, and only then could she breathe again. She looked out across the pond, gasping and panting, and there was Harry, still plugging his way towards her. 

When she’d recovered, she struck a pose, hands on hips, as he reached the shore and heaved himself out of the water. “Having a Squib moment, Harry?” she asked. Before he could answer she was backing away, laughing, then running across the sand and back onto the water. On her next attempt, she even managed a reverse skate across the pond before she tripped over. 

She wondered then how long the spell lasted, but everyone seemed to keep above the water – when on their feet at least. What she _did_ discover was that a modest, Harry-proof swimsuit was only really designed for use _in_ the water. On top of the water, in air on a stifling day, her exertions soon made her horribly hot, and it was a pleasure after a while to swan-dive into the water and cool off. 

Apolline Delacour was calling lunch, so hunger and tiredness eventually drove everyone back to the shore. Ginny was hideously hot when she sat down to eat. From Ron’s appearance, she probably resembled a beetroot, and Hermione and Harry weren’t far behind. Fleur, annoyingly, looked as cool as ever.

“Back in a minute,” Ginny gasped, temporarily abandoning her plate of seafood and salad and heading back towards the house. She grew even hotter as she walked, and then she was cursing herself as a Squib before Apparating back to the house. 

Stripping off the swimsuit was a huge relief, but it took some resolve to use her wand to slice the swimsuit into three pieces – top, bottom and rejected middle section. The top part sat reasonably well, but she wasn’t too sure about the lower half’s ability to stay with her. She experimented with a small area of sticking charm to glue the material to her hips, which seemed to work. When she examined herself in the bathroom mirror, she wasn’t too keen on the top half – the lower edge was wonky - so she used her wand once more to cut it into a wavy line, which looked OK, at least from the front.

She walked all the way back to the pond, enjoying the cooler sensation. Her mother, unsurprisingly, was horrified and angry at Ginny’s vandalism, but the others seemed to approve. She realised then that her DIY bikini was decidedly inelegant compared to Fleur’s or even Hermione’s attire – the waist was too high, for one thing – so after she’d eaten she Apparated back to the house to have another go. This time she used her wand to reduce both halves, boldly slicing around the shoulders and thighs as well as lowering the waistline and shortening the top half. Then, of course, she needed sticking charms on both parts to reduce the risk of them coming off.

When she returned, the others were still seated around the table, discussing water-skating sports, which according to Monsieur Delacour were very popular in southern France. Harry, intrigued, was listing sports that Muggles played on ice, and it seemed that most of them had water-skating equivalents. He was trying to drum up support for a game called hockey when Delacour turned to Fleur and said something in her ear. She laughed shortly, then cut across Harry’s extolling of the wonders of ice hockey by holding up both hands for silence.

“OK,” she said. “We will try _Choc_!”

“The noble game!” said Delacour.

“And that means clash?” queried Hermione, nervously. Ginny was amused to see that Hermione’s hair was still a tangle from the morning’s efforts.

“But yes. It is a sport of contact,” said Delacour, with relish. 

“So how does that work?” asked Harry. He looked honestly intrigued, and younger, less serious, as a result. Perhaps I do still like him, thought Ginny.

Fleur was looking around. “We have the right people…” Her forefinger flipped lightly between them. “Souris, Lapin, Chat, Loup. So. Listen. We have two teams of four.” She held up four fingers on both hands. “Four, OK? In each team, there is mouse, rabbit, cat, wolf. So. So, I am mouse, and so is Jheeny. Then in Jheeny’s team, Air-mione is the rabbit, Ron is the cat, and ‘Arry the wolf.”

“Can’t I be the wolf?” complained Ron.

“Shush,” said Fleur. “On my team, Ongeline is rabbit, Jheorge is cat, Beell is wolf.”

“I don’t think George…” began Angelina, worriedly. “I mean he hasn’t tried…”

Fleur reached across the table and put her hands lightly on George’s face. He looked back at her gravely, while Angelina observed this in concern. “Jheorge will be very good at _Choc_ ,” she said to him, in a husky voice. “Yes? Nod your head.” To Ginny’s surprise, he nodded, once. In a lithe gesture, Fleur pushed herself away from him. “Good!” she said. 

“The game is seemple,” she continued. “You make a square on the water. You have to cross the square, and you win points, different depending on whether you are mouse, or cat…”

Delacour interposed with a comment in French.

“Sure,” said Fleur, “OK. We will play Baby _Choc_. We all score the same. If you cross the square, you gain seex points, understand?”

There were uncertain nods around the table.

“Each team starts from one side, and the opposite team is on the side _next_ to you. So you play _across_ the other team. Not facing each other, like other games. Understand? Now, you want to stop the other team reaching the other side. So you _Choc_ with them.”

“Shock?” asked Angelina, uncertainly.

“Clash,” put in Delacour, with relish.

“If you clash with someone,” went on Fleur, “and they fall, they must return to the beginning. Simple, yes?”

“Apparate?” put in Ron, nervously. “Or swim?”

“It is your choice,” shrugged Fleur. “But Apparate is quicker. If you are hit and you do not fall, you can continue. The one who hit you gets no points. But if you _Choc_ someone and they fall, you score.”

“But it is a penalty if you Apparate when you have not sunk,” put in Delacour.

“Truly,” said Fleur. “Now it is a little complicated: Your score depends on whether you are mouse or cat, or rabbit or wolf, and who you _Choc_. So if a mouse…” – she pointed to herself – “ _Choc_ a wolf…” – she put her hand on Bill next to her – “… I score five points. _But_ … But if wolf _Choc_ a mouse, he _loses_ one point. Is clear?”

“ _Loses_ a point?” asked Angelina, in confusion.

“Yes, loses. The wolf, he should only _Choc_ another wolf. Then he gets two points.” She held up two fingers.

“Two points,” said Harry uncertainly.

“Yes, two. If you _Choc_ the same animal as you, it is always two points. _Choc_ a bigger animal, you get more points. _Choc_ a smaller one, you get less. So if cat _Choc_ rabbit, that is only one point. If cat _Choc_ wolf, bigger than she, that is three points. And so on. Do you see?”

“No,” came a chorus from around her.

Fleur put her hand to her head, touching her forehead with a single finger. “You must have table in your mind, yes? Imagine table. Across the top, mouse, rabbit, cat, wolf, and then line. And down the side, mouse, rabbit, cat, wolf.”

“Wait…” started Ron, but Fleur ignored him.

“Down the... the diagonal, all is twos. Two-two-two-two, to show if you _Choc_ your own type, you score two. Then left to right, for a row, each number increases by one. Yes? For mouse, two, three, four, five, seex for line. So mouse scores seex for crossing line, do you agree? Then downwards, you decrease by one on each line. Each… column, do you see? Two, one, zero, meenus one. So if a wolf Choc a mouse, he score meenus one.”

“Minus?” asked Angelina, still baffled.

“Of course. So, make this table in your head. Of course, we play Baby _Choc_ , so instead of the column for line being seex, five, four… it is seex all the way down the line column. Seex, seex, seex, seex … And that is all, really.”

“So,” said Harry, uncertainly, “If I’m a wolf, and I take down… I shock… you, the mouse, I score minus one.”

“Yes,” agreed Fleur. “But sometimes it is worth it, yes? If I am best player, it is best to _Choc_ me, so I cannot make big scores against your team. It is about judgment. Defence and attack. And speed!”

“So how do you win?” asked Hermione. “When the other team has drowned?”

“No, no,” put in Delacour. “Not any more. For professional games, in the _Conf_ _érence_ , you wait for the wagers to be placed, and then you play until all the scores added together are at least equal to the total wager. But for friendly games, you simply choose a number, such as fifty-one.”

“Or eighty-seven,” put in Fleur. “Do you see?”

“No,” chorused everyone around the table.

“You will,” said Fleur, confidently. “It is easy.”


	10. The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

Their first game of _Choc_ wasn’t an entire success. 

“No Air-mione!” shouted Fleur. “Not just touch him, _‘eet_ him…! Try again! No! ‘Arry! You ‘ave just let me score five points against you, you must look out for mouse! No, no, Ongeline, let him make ‘is own mistakes… No, Ron, Jheeny is on your own team… No, Beell! Where are your eyes? No, ‘Arry, if you _Choc_ Ongeline this scores you no points… Bravo, George, that is better! Jheeny, don’t worry about your brassiere! Is anybody tired yet? Well, never mind, we keep going anyway…”

A proper clash, given or received, jarred every bone and raised painful bruises, but was strangely satisfying nonetheless. Near misses or fumbled clashes were a huge disappointment, somehow, causing more yells and groans than true clashes ever did. It was hideously hard to reach the far line, and yet distressingly easy sometimes for a member of the opposite team to reach the other side unhindered. None of the new players could get used to the idea of playing at right-angles to the opposing team, instead of face to face. 

But they settled down in time, and became familiar with Apparating ashore when they were _Choc’_ d, then running down the beach and across the water to return to the glowing orange square outline that was the playing area, with rescuing their swimming costumes when they began to part company, and appreciating the significance of the _Choc_ line, which reached diagonally across the playing square and formed the place where most encounters occurred. Monsieur Delacour remained safely on shore, and acted as referee and scorer, while his wife continued to doze on her blanket.

Delacour eventually whistled, piercingly. “Fifty-one!” he shouted. “Fleur’s team have the award! Refreshments now, I think!”

They congregated around the picnic table once more, exalting and complaining, comparing bruises and cut lips. Ginny felt like one all-over bruise, with extra sore patches where her sticking charms held her makeshift bikini in place. She had watched Fleur closely, and seen the way her opponent had curled herself up into a ball just before impact, and tried to emulate her. The net effect was often satisfying, felling most of her opponents, but she still couldn’t work out how Fleur was mostly unbruised. Both Angelina and George were vicious opponents, and often hunted together, so no sooner had she bounced off one of them than the other would fell her, and she would be back on the beach, running full pelt back towards the water.

Monsieur Delacour kindly provided bottles of dittany, which were passed around repeatedly, as people tended their own and each other’s bruises.

“They say _Choc_ is sponsored by the makers of the dittany,” said Delacour, with a twinkle in his eye. “They think they are joking, but my company is an avid sponsor of the _La Conf_ _érence du Choc_ , so the joke is really no joke!”

“Do you really make money out of _Choc_ , Mister Delacour?” asked Ron, intrigued, as he applied copious amounts of dittany to a wincing Hermione’s back. Hermione twisted her head around at his words and glared at him, horrified, but Delacour merely laughed. “No, no! My company spends much. But the advertising, it is good. We have no regrets.”

“Here,” said Harry’s voice behind Ginny. “Let me help…” And his hands were on her, rubbing the lotion onto her shoulders, her back, and the back of her thighs. 

“Ooh,” she moaned quietly, out of embarrassment, pain and relief. “Let me do yours,” she added.

“Anywhere else?”

“No…” Actually, her buttocks seemed to have taken the worst punishment, but she wasn’t prepared to let him put dittany there… “Let me,” she insisted, wresting the little bottle out of his hands. Her face was hot then as she dodged behind him without meeting his eyes. Familiar territory, she found herself thinking as she applied dittany to his back and rubbed it well into his shoulder muscles. But a foreign country as well… _Aren’t I a traitor, now?_ she asked herself, fearfully.

It was easier for Hermione, she thought pettishly, and Fleur. Fleur in particular had no inhibitions in treating - and being treated by - Bill, of course, and had peeled off her top to make it easier for him. At the same time, Ginny itched to take the bottle out of Angelina’s hand and stop her treating George like a piece of delicate china. But there was something very touching all the same in her tender ministrations, and George seemed very intent on her care.

Harry had taken the dittany bottle out of her hands again, and was behind her, rubbing dittany into her shoulders, which was more about pleasure than necessity, she decided. “I’ve had an idea,” he murmured into her ear, which both tickled her and made her shiver. “I’ve been watching the way Fleur works. She waits for us to cluster together…”

“…And then she _Choc_ s us both,” she murmured back, to show she was listening, and not just enjoying his touch.

“Yeah!” he breathed. “Seven points for her. So let’s say, whenever we’re parallel, or close enough, let’s close up, but you stay slightly further back, OK? And get ready to take my hand…”

“OK…” she managed. She made herself cross her arms, and look unconcerned at his hands on her skin, his breath on her neck.

“Fleur will prioritise me,” whispered Harry. “Because I’m worth more points.” 

“Mmh,” said Ginny, embarrassing herself again. 

“So here’s what we’ll do…” said Harry.

Fleur didn’t know what had hit her. Whenever she saw Harry and Ginny converge, and she launched herself at them, she found herself missing the larger target, tripping over the smaller one, and disappearing in a welter of spray. Her time on the water was so reduced that her opposition had plenty of time to _Choc_ her team-mates - and her team’s success was largely her sole effort. At Harry’s suggestion, they reserved this technique for Fleur alone, so she never got to observe how they did it, and the rest of her team had neither the time nor the experience to describe what they’d seen. So when Delacour called “Fifty-one!” a second time, and added “Victory to Ginny’s team!”, it seemed entirely natural to run at Harry, fling her arms around him, let him kiss her, and laugh in his face as they tumbled into the water.

Fleur wasn’t a sore loser, fortunately. As blazing day succeeded blazing day, the _Choc_ matches became nearly as serious as Quidditch in the minds of the players. Long discussions on tactics were followed by heavily-fought matches, and winning was never easy.

George was talking now. That was partly down to Angelina’s unfailing support, but also due to Fleur’s constant mocking of him, on the lake and off. His sense of humour returned, and he would give her as good as he got. He grew confident on the water, surpassing most of them, and Angelina’s and his dirty tricks were the equal of Harry’s and Ginny’s. Strangely, the most ruthless pair on the water were Ron and Hermione. They seemed to shrug off any bad collisions they were in, and their killer instincts frequently brought down the opposing team members - unless the latter paired up in a clever enough way to outfox them. Angelina was George’s energetic foil, and Bill’s unflinching backup of Fleur made them a formidable team as well. The matches grew longer, as Fleur and Ginny bid up the target total, and what was two weeks became three, and even Apolline Delacour would wake and become engrossed in the matches.

There were casualties. Ron, smashing into Bill, managed to break his own leg and Bill’s arm, and Angelina was knocked unconscious in a _Choc_ with Harry, but Delacour Summoned all the casualties from the water almost as soon as they were injured. Mrs Weasley displayed a surprising talent for repairs, and seemed increasingly complacent about the dangers of _Choc_ , which George loudly attributed to sunstroke. 

Clothing repairs were even more common. Ginny was now wearing one of Fleur’s spare bikinis, after her inelegantly butchered swimsuit had started to disintegrate entirely. Fleur had steered her to her own room, opened a drawer and tossed out a selection of swimwear for Ginny to try, and short of being forcibly undressed and redressed, Ginny had no alternative than to try each of them, until Fleur judged one acceptable. 

“And if that gets torn to shreds,” Fleur added encouragingly, “I will find you another.” 

But it was still difficult to talk to Harry about anything other than _Choc_ , and at the end of each evening she would make a point of quitting his side and heading for bed.

The sleeping arrangements were irksome: As well as four large first-floor bedrooms, there were a series of tiny bedrooms leading off the vast attic space at the top of the house, which the boys slept in, but Ginny wasn’t allowed to use one of those. Instead, she had to share a first-floor room with Angelina and Hermione. Angelina habitually deserted them, and even Hermione, once all were settled, would slip through the door into the dark silence of the rest of the house. But Harry didn’t take advantage of her solitude, which was both a disappointment and a relief. She still couldn’t see through the tangle of her own mind, and the image on the Ministry map still plagued her thoughts. 

Despite the conflicts within her, she felt an almost physical wrench when the end of the holiday came, and Harry, Ron and Hermione were to travel straight to London to begin their training. She kissed Harry when they came to say goodbye, and managed to meet his eyes, but she kissed everyone else as well, as did he, so perhaps that still meant nothing.

George, Angelina, her parents and she returned to the Burrow. Something breathed more easily within her, but there was a yawning emptiness as well, which wasn’t just about Fred. She had been angry before at having to return to Hogwarts, but what had seemed like incarceration when viewed from a month away now seemed like a form of release from the blankness at home, with her parents more silent once more. 

And yet… When her Hogwarts letter arrived, it was strange to see it lonely on the kitchen table, without her brother’s, and Hermione’s, and Harry’s, alongside. She picked it up, and it felt like a life sentence. Impulsively, she bolted outside, flung the letter into the air, and used _Confringo_ to blast it to shreds. It seemed to make a bigger bang than she had been expecting _. I’m going to be lonely at Hogwarts_ , she told herself. _I have to accept that._

And maybe Draco Malfoy would be there, and maybe he wouldn’t, and she needed to sort out what she felt about him as well.


	11. The Prefect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

Her parents roused themselves to make a lot of fuss over her when they took her to King’s Cross on the first of September, and George and Angelina came along as well. And her parents had a surprise for her: They presented her with her own owl. 

“We want to hear from you,” said her mother, firmly. “And no excuses about shortages of school owls! But don’t forget to look after Arnold!”

Arnold, her Pygmy Puff, bought at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, had never been a hugely active pet, content to snooze on her shoulder and her pillow, but as he’d grown older - and maybe some magic had worn off – he resembled more the puffskein he’d presumably started out as, and he preferred to crawl up her bedroom curtains and find a fold to sleep in, grumbling if she disturbed him by unreasonably opening or closing the curtains, although he would still trot onto her sleeve to be fed. So an alert and handsome young Elf Owl, tinier even than Pigwidgeon, was a wonderful gift, and she hugged both her parents in gratitude. 

“Only short letters!” said Mr Weasley, grinning manically. “That’s all either of you have to manage!”

 _Last year was just the same_ , she told herself, as she waved to her family from the carriage window, and the train slid away along the platform. _I was on my own then, too_ , she told herself. Harry, Ron and Hermione had already gone into hiding. But last year, almost as soon as the train had left the station, Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood had found her, and the three of them had spent hours plotting tactics for the coming year, and they had formed a strange bond that had lasted until Luna had gone missing and Ginny had been unable to return. 

This time, there was no Neville, of course, but no Luna either: There was a copy of _The Quibbler_ on each seat of the train, proudly announcing on the cover that the Editor (X Lovegood) and Assistant Editor (L Lovegood) were on the trail of a migrating herd of Blubbering Humdingers on the Peruvian/Ecuadorian border and, over the next year, would be publishing on-the-spot news of the most exciting event of the past twenty years (according to the Quibbler).

And no Draco, which somehow she’d hoped for. She felt a strange alienation now, the chattering around her at odds with her own numbness, so she found an empty compartment and tried to read _The Quibbler._ But the paper had clearly abandoned its pro-Harry stance of last year and had returned exclusively to its diet of unlikely animals and unlikelier people, and she soon threw it down in annoyance.

She was reduced to talking to her owl, as he flitted about the compartment. She decided to call him Pablo, because she’d been told he came from Mexico. Arnold was sulking, of course, and nobody else came near. Ginny would have chatted to Voldemort himself by the time the train arrived at Hogwarts.

A grinning Hagrid greeted her as an old friend, which made her feel better, and she hugged him as high as she could reach, before he hurried the first-years away for their boating trip. 

There was much exclamation and discussion over the Thestrals, of course. In the past year, many of the pupils had witnessed deaths, and could now see for themselves what drew the carriages that took them into the school. 

With a surge of pleasure Ginny recognised a familiar back, in a group stroking one of the Thestrals, and quickly pushed through the crowds to reach out to her.

Angharad Marsh turned around in surprise. “Hi!” said Ginny, smiling with pleasure. “How…”

Her voice dried then, as Angharad – the real Angharad – looked at her in amazement. “How are you?” Ginny made herself say. 

Angharad frowned in puzzlement, but answered politely enough. “I’m fine, thanks,” she said uncertainly. 

The true Angharad looked older than the Polyjuice one: The fine Celt features were gaunter now, her near-black hair longer, and there were dark smudges below more adult eyes.

“Did…?” Ginny started, about to ask after Angharad’s summer holidays, but she remembered that this girl’s parents had died only months ago. “Did… Is your grandmother OK?” Ginny managed.

Angharad’s expression cleared slightly. “Yes, she’s fine,” she answered. “Thanks… Do you know her?”

“Not really,” Ginny answered, trying for breezy but feeling ever more of an idiot. “But, you know, Abergavenny…”

Angharad smiled, briefly. “You know Abergavenny?” she asked, politely.

“N-no,” Ginny had to admit. “But near there… Got to go!” she said then, and turned away, covered in shame. 

There were differences when they reached the Great Hall. The place seemed half-empty, and she realised that although all the house tables seemed thinly populated, the Slytherin table held only a handful of pupils, who stared worriedly at everyone else. Gryffindor seemed to hold only younger pupils. Where was everybody?

She sat down next to her only contemporary: Andrew Kirke, her old Quidditch Beater team-mate. “What’s going on?” she asked him. “Where are all the Slytherins?” He shrugged, blankly. Never the sparkiest wand in the shop. 

The top table seemed strangely empty, too. She could see Professor Slughorn, and Professor Flitwick like a gnome beside him, and Professor Sprout talking to Professor Vector, but the rest of the chairs were unoccupied. She heard the doors open onto the Entrance Hall, and a strange quiet filled the room as the new first-years walked uncertainly along the centre aisle. They were accompanied by Professor McGonagall, carrying the Sorting Hat and a stool, so it appeared she had not relinquished that role now she was Headmistress.

The school watched them go past, in silence. She caught the eye of Angharad, opposite, but to her partial relief the girl merely gave her an uncertain smile, and turned her attention to the passing first-years, most of whom seemed the size of elves, now.

The new pupils formed a white-faced line beneath the top table. McGonagall positioned the stool in front of them, placed the hat carefully on the stool and stepped back. There was another silence as the hat stared sightlessly at them. Eventually the slash in its brim opened, and it began to speak.

“ _A fellowship, we, one single heart,_

_That ever I’ve sought to set apart._

_I’ve singled out brains, and loyalty, too,_

_And set them on a different path._

_I’ve bent the steps of the cunning, away_

_From the path that the brave will lay._

_Did my scheming bring us triumph?_

_Or have we grown astray?_

_I am bound to obey, to fulfil my bond,_

_To keep us safe and strong,_

_But I need to plea for pardon_

_If what I wrought was wrong.”_

Then silence. From Professor McGonagall’s expression, from the way her hands gripped the scroll holding the new pupils’ names, the Sorting Hat’s words were a surprise too. But she pulled herself together, ignoring the growing muttering around her, and read out the first name.

“Nelda Adlam!”

A tiny, worried-looking blonde girl stepped forward, picked up the hat and put it on, uncertainly. Only her chin was visible.

“ _Ravenclaw_!” said the Hat after an uncomfortable pause.

“At least it’s still choosing,” said Warin Harcourt, from across the table, in his high, precise tones. He was in the year below Ginny, but always sounded middle-aged. “It could have decided not to.”

“And done what?” asked Kirke.

“It couldn’t,” said Polly Newhouse, also in Harcourt’s year. “It didn’t have a choice. Poor hat…”

“But what would have happened?” pursued Harcourt. “Would they have done it alphabetically? Or just put them all in Slytherin? They’d have fitted. And where _are_ all the other Slytherins anyway?”

“ _I_ heard,” said Kirke, “that a lot of the parents are in Azkaban, or in hiding. I guess getting the kids to school came second to that.”

“They could have sent them somewhere else,” said Polly. “Like Durmstrang.”

“Quiet please…!” called Professor McGonagall from the front of the hall. It seemed they weren’t the only people in the hall making deductions from the Sorting Hat’s words. The noise in the hall dropped sharply. 

“ _Slytherin_!” called the Sorting Hat.

“Well, that’ll keep the Death Eaters happy,” said Kirke, a little too loudly.

“MR KIRKE,” Professor McGonagall’s voice rang out. “I WILL GIVE DETENTIONS ON THE FIRST EVENING IF NECESSARY!”

Ginny looked only vaguely at the handful of first-years who were Sorted into Gryffindor, distracted as she was.

“If I may have your attention for a wee while longer,” Professor McGonagall said when the Sorting had finished, “I have some notices to hand out.” She had a fresh piece of parchment in her hand. “Firstly… Mr Filch wishes me to tell you…”

There was an ironic cheer, but somehow almost a friendly one. Ginny felt a warmth then; It was good to be back.

“Quiet please! Mr Filch wishes me to tell you that the latest list of banned items is on the noticeboard in his office. Secondly, first year pupils are advised that they are not allowed into the Forbidden Forest. On that note, I would like to remind the rest of the school to keep away from the forest at all times.”

The resulting buzz only lasted as long as it took the new Headmistress to raise her glance ominously from her notes.

“On that note,” she went on, “third-years and above may be disappointed to hear that there will be NO Hogsmeade visits for the foreseeable future.”

That produced a louder, discontented buzz from her audience. A Ravenclaw from the year below – what was his name? – stood up and called out. “Why not?” he shouted. “We’re entitled…”

“It is for your own safety,” said McGonagall, loudly. “There has been an attack on the village by a flock of Dementors a fortnight ago, and several people…” She stopped.

“Lost their lives?” asked a horrified voice.

“Lost their souls,” said McGonagall, shortly. There was a silence, then a babble of sound. Warin looked over at Ginny and mouthed ‘Who?’ She could only shrug.

“You will be perfectly safe within the castle,” McGonagall said loudly. “Quiet, please! 

“Existing pupils will have noticed that we are down on numbers this evening. I would like to allay your fears, in part at least. Those of you who attended the memorial service for fallen pupils will know who gave their lives in defence of this school, and there are several others who are still under care of Healers, but most Hogwarts pupils are perfectly well, and have simply been prevented from returning to school today.

“Under new Ministry of Magic regulations, all pupils must be approved before attending this school each year. This, they say, is for your protection, but unfortunately there is a considerable backlog in processing the entire school roll. You will, I expect, become used to seeing your fellow pupils arrive, in dribs and drabs, as the Ministry sees fit to release them! A similar rule restricts our recruitment of new teachers, so the new faces I hoped would greet you are unfortunately unable to be here.”

The flinty expression in McGonagall’s eyes told of her displeasure.

“In the meantime, I trust that you will support the existing teaching staff, and each other, in what will be tricky circumstances. In particular, I ask that you support Professor Slughorn, who has kindly agreed to remain once more as Head of Slytherin, and is almost entirely bereft of his senior pupils. I have loaned him two prefects from other houses to assist him, in the interim.”

A more cheerful murmur arose then, and McGonagall allowed it to run for some seconds. 

“And lastly: You may think, after the events at the end of last year, that it is appropriate to behave in a continuing celebratory manner. I would like to disabuse you of this notion. You are here to _work_ , and persistent disruption will be dealt with severely!”

Ginny could have sworn that the Headmistress was looking directly at her when she said this, and looked away guiltily.

“Now,” McGonagall was saying, “Enjoy the feast! Tuck in!”

Ginny had always believed that McGonagall discretely supported the mayhem that Neville, Luna and she had fomented against the ruling Death Eaters all last year. Now it seemed she may have misinterpreted her new Headmistress: Ginny’s bad behaviour last year had quickly removed her from the list of prefects, and it seemed this would continue to be the case. On the positive side, it meant she wouldn’t have to be bothered with the new intake. Or be drafted into Slytherin; She couldn’t imagine a worse punishment.

There was no sign of Draco Malfoy. The sparse numbers on the Slytherin table made it very easy to be sure that he wasn’t one of them. Had he been prevented from attending by the new Ministry rules? And had to return to his parent’s house? She felt that quelling guilt once more. _No-one_ , she told herself, _deserves what I did to Malfoy_.

She ate mechanically, while everyone around her enthused over the food and shouted to each other along the table. Her life, she decided, promised to be very empty for the forthcoming year.

The table emptied itself of food, and McGonagall was standing once more, bidding them goodnight, and telling the first-years to follow their house prefects to their houses. Ginny heard this with only half an ear, and the noise around her didn’t penetrate her consciousness, either.

“Miss Weasley!” McGonagall’s voice, right in her ear. “If I can have your attention!”

Ginny jumped up, startled, and turned to face the Headmistress. 

“I would like a word with you in my study,” said McGonagall, glaring at her. “But first, you need to attend to your duties, and accompany the new Gryffindor students to their house!”

“But I’m not a prefect!”

The Headmistress fixed her with a stare and bent forward until their noses were almost touching. “Miss Weasley, I have an extremely difficult task this year. One of the lengthier demands on my time was writing a letter to every pupil before term started. In your case, _four_ letters. I would prefer, if it is all the same with you, _that you READ the letters I send you_!”

“I…”

“YOU are Gryffindor Head Prefect this year, and for now at least, Head Girl of the school. I trust that when the Ministry has performed its role, you will be permitted some assistance, but for now, it is just YOU and ME. Please accompany the first-years upstairs, and then come and see me. Listen carefully. The house password is Chosen One, and my office password is Tartan. Now, please hurry!”

 _Head Girl?_ Ginny had to run up every staircase, taking Harry’s favourite shortcuts, but at least her holiday in France had kept her healthy, and she had breath when she got there. Surely there were more likely candidates? What about all the Hufflepuff do-gooders, to start with? Although she couldn’t remember seeing many of those either.

The entire house, it seemed, was clustered outside the Fat Lady’s portrait, but they parted to let her stride up the middle. “Chosen One!” she said, feeling stupid, but the Fat Lady winked at her, conspiratorially, and the portrait swung open. 

“First-years!” Ginny said as firmly as she could. The other students waited patiently as the new pupils followed her through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room.

“ _Chosen One_?” said one of the new boys, a weedy kid taller than the rest, with his dandelion-hair sticking up even further. He wore a know-it-all smile. “Aren’t you his girlfriend?”

“No!” she said coldly, and it was a relief, somehow, that she didn’t really have to lie. “Shouldn’t you be in Slytherin?” she asked him, pointedly. His smile vanished. She turned away awkwardly and gestured. “Girls’ dormitories up _there_ , boys up _there._ You’ll find your names on your room doors, and your trunks and owls next to your bed. You’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow, so get some sleep. Any problems, come and find me.”

“Excuse me,” said a small girl, putting up her hand, nervously. “Who are you?”

“Ginny Weasley,” she answered, feeling her face go red. “Gryffindor prefect. The only one at the moment, until the Ministry get their… get their paperwork straight, so while I will do my best to help you, please don’t expect me to be spending all my time wiping your…” She trailed to halt.

A suppressed snigger from some of them. The rest of the house was crowding through the portrait hole, and gathering around in interest. She glared at them. “Haven’t you lot anything better to do than stare?” she asked, pointedly.

“Were you at the battle?” asked another first year, from behind the tall cheeky one.

“Yes, I was,” said Ginny, and the eyes around her went wide in wonder. Suddenly she knew what it was like to be Harry, with everyone staring, and felt a flood of sympathy for him. “Count yourselves lucky you weren’t,” she said, annoyed.

The faces around her fell, and she felt even more terrible. She tried to smile. “So… Any more questions?” 

Fortunately, there were none. “Breakfast will be in the Great Hall,” she stated. “Get some sleep…”

She got a wry look from one or two of the old hands, but she could ignore that, and headed out of the portrait hole. 

As she walked through the school towards McGonagall’s office – still Dumbledore’s old office, to her – she was heartened, and comforted, by the familiarity around her. Even the sight of Peeves, painting a moustache on the bust of an old headmaster, to the latter’s reedy objections, made her feel better. 

“Tartan” did cause the gargoyle at the foot of the spiral stairs to leap out of the way, but she stumbled when the stairs failed to move under her, and she had to walk up. It was typical of McGonagall, she decided, to prefer the exercise, and freeze the steps in place.

The new Headmistress was writing when Ginny entered, and merely glowered and pointed with the end of her quill towards the chair in front of her desk. Ginny sat down gingerly, and inspected the room. In Dumbledore’s day, it had been a wonderful cave of beautiful and strange devices, which had then been brutally cast aside to make room for Snape’s countless Dark Detectors. Now it seemed a more workmanlike room, with large and ugly locks on the cupboard doors, and hand-drawn charts of various kinds pinned between the portraits – slightly over the portraits in some cases, to the visible discomfort of the ex-headmasters. There was Snape, looking fixedly at her, but he didn’t move or seem to react to her presence. Somehow she missed him as much as Dumbledore.

“Well, Ginny…” said McGonagall eventually. “Have you really not read your Hogwarts letters? Any part of them?”

Ginny shook her head in embarrassment. “It… they… got… damaged,” she said lamely, and although McGonagall glared at her she didn’t pursue the subject.

The Headmistress’s wand twitched, and several scrolls appeared, followed by two gold badges that pinged onto the desk. She pushed them across the desk towards Ginny. GRYFFINDOR – HEAD PREFECT, said one badge, the other HEAD GIRL. Ginny could only look at them like scorpions. 

“The first letter… welcomes you back and outlines your book needs. You will need to obtain those. And I would add that after last year’s shenanigans, on _both_ sides, you will have a lot of catching up to do! The second letter explains the situation regarding prefects, and your appointments as one of them.”

“So who else will be prefect?” asked Ginny.

“ _That_ remains to be seen,” said McGonagall, dryly. “When I’m able to decide, you and everybody else will be informed. In the meantime, I am counting on you, Miss Weasley.” Her eyes seemed to bore into Ginny. “The two seconded prefects have been picked – I managed to circumvent the Ministry on the basis of it being a purely temporary measure. They’re not ideal, but they’ll have to do, and I expect you to work closely and support them, and the other prefects.”

“Have you sent a Gryffindor prefect to Slytherin?” Ginny asked.

“No,” replied McGonagall. “To start with, there _are_ no other Gryffindor prefects at this point. And in view of the long-standing enmity between the two houses, it would have been unwise. I’ve sent Dominic Poleworthy from Hufflepuff and Angharad Marsh from Ravenclaw. They’re both the year below you, so I’ll be looking to you to give them guidance.”

“But I haven’t been a prefect before – Well, except for…”

“Except for a single week at the beginning of last year,” agreed McGonagall, “After which Professor Snape was forced to remove you from your appointment. I will be extremely displeased, Miss Weasley, if that happens again. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Headmistress,” said Ginny, unnerved.

McGonagall smiled unexpectedly. “You are permitted to call me Minerva, when we are in private,” she said.

This was all going too fast for Ginny. “What about Polly?” she asked. “Wouldn’t she make a good prefect?”

McGonagall gave her a jaundiced look. “As soon as Miss Newhouse pays sufficient attention to her studies,” she said dryly, “I may consider it. But I fear we may be in for a long wait. And before you go there, I would add that I am still waiting for Harcourt to pay attention to anything _else_. Now… Your third letter,” she went on, “Is hopefully no surprise. You are invited to captain the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I would like to think you can bring the cup back to Gryffindor at the end of this year!”

Ginny nodded, uncertainly. “Will you be staying on as Head of Gryffindor?” she asked. “As well as Headmistress?”

“Yes,” said McGonagall, briefly. “For now. The fourth letter…” she paused. “The fourth letter was a puzzle to me, too. I have been informed that you intend to study French.” Her eyes seemed to burn into Ginny’s, and she waited for a response, but Ginny could find none to give her.

“I see,” said McGonagall eventually. “Very well. It is not for me to comment. At present, we have no member of staff who can provide that training. There _will be_ someone, who, if the Ministry approve that appointment, will be able to help you. I should tell you that I doubt there will be much time for either of you to timetable the required lessons. But I will keep you informed.”

“Thank you,” Ginny managed.

“So much for your letters. Now, we have much to cover. You will need to take notes…” – A scroll and a quill appeared on the desk before Ginny – “And I would be grateful if you would not blast _these_ into dust until you have memorised their contents.”

It was nearing midnight when Professor McGonagall declared they were finished, and Ginny’s notes had grown ever more scrappy and illegible. 

“Off to bed,” said McGonagall. “You need to be up early to look after the first-years. After all my efforts getting them here, it would be a shame to lose them on the first morning.”

It was hard not to groan. McGonagall fixed her with an unimpressed stare. “I trust the summer holidays were not too long for you,” she said, pointedly. 

Ginny shook her head, and at last asked the question that had been on her mind all day. 

“Is Draco Malfoy here?” she asked. “Someone told me he was here to retake his N.E.W.T.s….” 

McGonagall gave her a beady stare. “He was here, yes. Why do you ask?”

Ginny shrugged. “I didn’t see him, that’s all.”

“There is nothing to be concerned about,” replied McGonagall. “He is entitled to return, because he has not in fact sat his final exams. But the Ministry decided he had to leave.”

“Was he arrested?”

McGonagall’s stare grew harder. “No. There is no evidence that he had committed any crime, apart from joining the wrong side. I understand he has gone home, and will return here as soon as the Ministry make a decision.”

“Or they send him to Azkaban,” said Ginny, which earned her a frown. Home? Did Draco have a home to go to now?

“There are many bigger fish,” McGonagall said then. “It will take a while for the Ministry to get down to Draco Malfoy. Does it concern you he will return here? He will be harmless enough, you’ll find. Did you know his parents are dead?”

“No,” lied Ginny. 

But McGonagall’s expression was stony disbelief. “Time for bed,” was all she said, while Ginny stood and gathered her notes and letters. Then she tutted, and sighed. “For you, at least. I have another letter to write.”

“To the Ministry?” asked Ginny, starting to enjoy this new high-stepping life, despite her tiredness.

“To Mr and Mrs Goldstein,” said McGonagall, heavily. “They’re still very upset, and I have no answers yet to give them.”

“Answers to what?”

“Get some sleep, Miss Weasley,” said Professor McGonagall with another sigh. “You’ll need all your faculties tomorrow morning.”

“What’s happened to Anthony?” Ginny asked, apprehensively.

McGonagall stared at her in amazement. “He disappeared, during the final battle. You were asked about this.”

“No,” said Ginny, puzzled in her turn. “I wasn’t.”

McGonagall sighed in exasperation. “You were interrogated…”

“No! I wasn’t!”

“Well, you should have been. Every student should have been interviewed. Anthony Goldstein was last seen outside the castle, near where two Giants were brawling, and somehow he disappeared during the fight. I hope it was quick…”

“I saw him,” said Ginny in confusion. “In the Entrance Hall, after the battle.”

“No.”

“I _saw_ him!”

“Did you talk to him?” asked McGonagall, sceptically.

Ginny shook her head. “No… He was talking nonsense, and a girl was helping him.”

“Which girl?”

“I don’t know,” Ginny admitted. “I didn’t recognise her. She was Beauxbaton.”

McGonagall was staring at her in perplexity. “Well, I will report this, of course. You may have to describe what you saw to the Auror’s office. But I won’t mention this to the Goldsteins at the moment. I wouldn’t want to raise their hopes unnecessarily. Now, off to bed!”

Ginny couldn’t stop yawning on her way back to Gryffindor Tower. Perhaps there wasn’t enough fresh air in McGonagall’s office, she decided. The Fat Lady was asleep when she got there. Ginny was too tired for politeness, so she rapped on the frame of the painting until its occupant pulled her eyelids apart.

“Chosen One,” said Ginny. The Fat Lady was too sleepy even to argue, and let her in without comment.

She nearly went into the wrong dormitory – the one she had shared for the past six years – but realised she had her own room now, and had to retrace her steps downwards to just above the common room. She had put her hand on the doorknob when she heard a strange fluttering and banging noise. Her heart jumped and raced, and her chest seemed squeezed. _Another cat-insect?_ _Here_?

 _I should just walk away_ , she told herself. _Get help_. But she had to know. She cracked open the door, ready to slam it again. 

Another thud, and a grunt. A flapping noise. Both were coming from behind the door. She very slowly peeped her head around the door, and then she could remember to breathe again.

Pablo had managed to escape from his cage – Ginny suspected he had just squeezed through the bars – and was perched on the top edge of a dark rectangle on one wall. _Lumos_ revealed the rectangle to be a small painting, and Pablo had decided to roost there. From the white streaks down the painting he had been there for some time. This did not please the occupant, a powerful and muscular bull, who was glaring aggressively at Pablo, and every few seconds would back away and butt the surface of the painting. As he did so, Pablo would flap his wings, but he didn’t want to roost elsewhere, it seemed. 

Ginny opened the window and shooed the bird out. She felt that cleaning off the bird poo streaking the painting could wait until daylight, but the bull didn’t. He kept attacking the canvas until Ginny used her wand to remove most of the stains. He breathed through his nose, discontentedly, and sat heavily on the painted grass.

Puzzling as to why a girl’s bedroom should contain a picture of a bull, she gazed around at her new room. It was barely smaller than the one she had shared with three other girls, and had two paintings – Agnes Marlow, Head of Gryffindor, 1738 – 1771, said the label on the second one. Ginny dropped her stack of notes on the desk by the window, pulled off her clothes and dropped into bed with the minimum of preparation. With luck, Agnes wouldn’t snore as much as Lorna Emsworth used to.

Somebody was talking, loudly. Ginny groaned, but that wasn’t enough to shut them up. 

“Get up, girl!” said the voice. “Things to do! Up! Up! Up!”

Her eyes felt like sandpaper when she opened them, with glue added.

“No time to dally!” the voice was saying. “Out of bed! Hurry!”

She managed to focus her eyes. The voice belonged to the portrait. She grunted at it, but that didn’t stop the flow of words. 

“Prefects can’t sleep in!” said the ex-Head of Gryffindor. “Too much to do! Out of bed!”

I’m a prefect again, Ginny reminded herself. In fact the only house prefect. With an angry grunt, she climbed out of bed. The sky outside the window was grey and unencouraging.

“You have a name?” queried the portrait behind her.

“Ginny,” managed Ginny. “Ginny Weasley.”

“Agnes Marlow,” said the portrait. “Pleased to meet you.” Although there was no audible pleasure in the voice. “I trust you will not be expecting a wake-up call in future!”

“No,” said Ginny, unsure. There was a sink in the corner of the room, she noticed, and used it to splash water on her face, and then groaned at her reflection in the little mirror there.

“Is that singing?” asked Agnes. “I can’t abide singing.”

A glance at her wristwatch galvanised Ginny into hurrying to dress, and then she clambered up the spiral stairs, hammering as loudly as she could on each dormitory door as she passed. For good measure, she repeated this on the way down, and then it occurred to her she would need to do the same for the boys’ dormitories.

She yawned her way up the boys’ stairs, thumping on each door as she went, and again on the way down. One door opened as soon as she knocked. Dandelion-Head was standing there, fully dressed.

“I’ve been awake for ages,” he said, stiffly. “The sun woke me up.”

“Lucky old sun,” she managed through another yawn. “What’s your name?”

“Julius Caesar,” he said.

She squinted at the list of names next to the door. “You’re either Huw, Malcolm or Abraham. Which is it?”

“Abraham Southey,” he said. 

“So, what’s your problem?” she asked him.

“Problem?”

“Your attitude,” said Ginny. “Didn’t you want to come to school, then?”

He looked over his shoulder, stepped into the hallway and pulled the door behind him. “I expected to be in Slytherin,” he said. “Like the rest of my family.”

“They were full,” she said, turning away. 

“Does the Sorting Hat know what it’s doing?” he asked as she went down the stone steps.

She turned back to him. “Think so,” she said. 

“Can’t I change?” the boy asked.

“No,” she said. His face changed from superior to something else. “Is it a problem for you?” she asked, curiously.

“No,” he said quickly. “It’s fine.” Then he added, quickly: “But one of the other boys said he expected to be in Ravenclaw.”

“Are you winding everybody up, here?” she asked, annoyed. 

“No,” he said. “He mentioned it.”

Ginny couldn’t think of an answer to that. “You’ll settle down,” she said. “Get some breakfast in you.”


	12. The Hostages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

Professor McGonagall’s arm appeared over her shoulder as Ginny was finishing her breakfast, and dropped her timetable next to her plate.

“And a sorrier work of fiction I’ve rarely seen,” said McGonagall. “For now, I’ve managed to persuade the staff to focus on the O.W.L. and younger years, so they’re learning something, at least. But that leaves our N.E.W.T. students on their own until more staff appear. Professor Slughorn is hoping to squeeze in your Potions lessons, and I will provide a weekly evening tutorial on Transfiguration.”

“What about Defence Against the Dark Arts?” asked Ginny, picking up the timetable to study it. 

“I may have some news on that next week,” said McGonagall. “That’ll be temporary, but means you can get started. In the meantime, I refer you back to your list of books. Have you ordered them yet?”

“No,” admitted Ginny. She would have to talk to her mother: She doubted funds would stretch to ordering the books by owl, but perhaps Mrs Weasley would comb the second-hand book shops for her, if she could come up with a convincing explanation as to why she hadn’t bought them earlier.

“Soon as you can,” said McGonagall, stiffly. “And have you spoken the rest of the prefects about a meeting this morning? I don’t have time to be there, I’m afraid, but do your best.”

Ginny managed to talk to or leave messages for most of the small list of prefects during breakfast, but there was no sign of the two Slytherin temporary prefects, and no-one she recognised at their table. There was a small group of first-years sitting there, but they looked strangely subdued, and shook their heads when she mentioned Angharad’s and Dominic’s names.

“Become a prefect and see the world,” she muttered to herself as she strode down the corridor towards the dungeon that held the Slytherin house. She had to hammer on the door when she got there, and eventually a pugnacious girl she didn’t recognise – third year? Possibly - pulled open the door and looked at her warily. 

“I’m looking for your prefects,” Ginny said. 

A strange expression flashed across the girl’s face. “Haven’t seen them,” she said, and started to close the door. Ginny put her shoulder against the door and pushed her way inside. It was like a still life in the common room. The green underwater light from the window lit half a dozen figures standing there. She couldn’t see Angharad or Dominic amongst them. The only one she could recognise was Jarvis Montgomery, a sullen thug from her own year she preferred to stay away from, given a choice. But that wasn’t the job.

“OK, Jarvis, where are your prefects?” she asked, as lightly as she could.

He didn’t answer and his expression barely changed – just a twisting of his fleshy lips. But there was a snort from her right. She turned quickly towards the sound. A boy she couldn’t name was trying to keep his face straight.

She was tempted to leave at that point. _Where does courage end and stupidity start?_ she asked herself. Instead, she pulled out her wand, stepped up to the near-laughing boy and pointed it at his nose. His smile disappeared abruptly.

“Where are they?” she repeated. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes spoke volumes. Nervously, they went to Montgomery, briefly to a heavy door behind Montgomery, before flickering back to him in alarm.

It was hard to keep her face impassive then, while she struggled to decide her next move. The door? Or Montgomery? Or laughing boy? She marched over to the door. What if it’s a trick?

There was a heavy bolt across the door. At the last second, she used her wand to slide it back, instead of looking a fool struggling with it. 

There was a step behind her. She swung back towards Montgomery. His expression was still unpleasant, but wary, and his threatening step turned into a shuffle. She turned back, her neck prickling, and heaved the door open.

Angharad’s fearful eyes stared back at her. There was wide black fabric across her mouth, her hands were tied behind her back, and she was lashed to Dominic Poleworthy, who was similarly bound.

Her wand dealt with the ropes, which slid off their arms. She heard a step behind her, and spun round once more, her wand at the ready. The others were gathering around her.

“It was just a bit of fun,” said one of them. 

_What do I say now?_ she wondered, with gnawing uncertainty. _Detention? Lots of detentions? Lots of house points?_

Montgomery helped her decide, by taking a step towards her, a twisted smile on his blubbery lips. Her anger rose quickly to boiling point. She Stunned each of them in turn; It took only seconds, and Montgomery, the first of them, was still falling when she’d Stunned the last of them. She turned her back on them, angrily. Angharad and Dominic were struggling to remove the gags from their mouths. “Sorry,” she said shortly, and used an unsticking charm – the same one that she’d used after _Choc_ matches – and the gags dropped away.

“Where are your wands?” she asked the pair of them. Angharad could only shake her head, and Dominic did the same.

“ _Accio_ wands!” said Ginny loudly, and was nearly transfixed by the stream of wands that flew at her. She had to dodge, and the wands flew past her. Angharad hurried to pick them up, slipping one of the wands into her pocket, and holding out the others to Dominic, so he could retrieve his, before passing them back to Ginny. She didn’t meet her eyes.

“Are you OK?” Ginny asked. Angharad nodded, unhappily. Dominic nodded as well. He’d matured over the summer, she saw, and grown taller. Not a hulk like Montgomery, but definitely a looker now.

“Where’s everybody else?” Ginny asked then. 

“I don’t know,” said Angharad. “We sent the first-years to breakfast…” She stepped over to another door – larger than the cupboard they’d been in - and pulled it open, nervously. Ginny could see steep spiral stairs, going up and down, but all was quiet. “I think they’ve gone to lessons,” Angharad said.

Ginny dropped the other wands onto the pile of stunned Slytherins and led the way out of the house, along the corridor and up the stairs, into daylight. 

She turned to ask Angharad if she was OK, but before she could speak the girl was hugging her tightly, and found herself hugging her back. 

It was stupid. She _knew_ this was Angharad, but it was as if she was being hugged by Draco, and she didn’t know what that meant. Angharad let go and pushed herself away. Her eyes were bright. “Thank you,” she said. Dominic muttered his thanks as well.

“It’s OK,” said Ginny, embarrassed. “All part of the service. Are you OK? Both of you?”

Both nodded, but didn’t look happy. 

“Do I ask McGonagall to find somebody else?” she asked, unsure. 

Angharad shook her head with decision. “No! I was given this job…” Dominic nodded in agreement. “But won’t you get into trouble?” Angharad asked then, looking worried. “McGonagall said…”

“Yeah,” agreed Ginny, nodding. “No Stunning. Sorry. I just lost my temper. I’d better go and grovel to her.”

“What are you going to say?” asked Angharad, unhappily. “About… us?”

A second-year boy came running along the corridor, and nearly got Stunned as Ginny twisted in alarm, her wand in her hand. “Sorry,” said Ginny, shortly, lowering her wand, heart beating. “Don’t run in the corridors. Is something wrong?”

“I was asked to give you this,” said the boy – a Hufflepuff – holding out a note, his eyes round in amazement. “Were you going to Stun me?”

“No!” said Ginny, crossly. “’Course not.”

“I wouldn’t have minded,” he said. 

“Stuart,” said Dominic, kindly. “You’re imagining things. Where are you meant to be right now?”

“Transfiguration,” said Stuart, his eyes still on Ginny’s wand as she pushed it back into her gown. “Wasps.”

“Go to it,” recommended Dominic, and the boy hurried off. 

The note, rolled around a timetable, was brief and to the point. A Ravenclaw fifth-year was about to arrive at the main gate, and Ginny was directed to admit him and deal with his baggage.

“Go to go,” she said hurriedly to Dominic. “Prefects meeting at ten, yeah?”

Dominic looked at his watch. “That gives you twenty minutes…”

Ginny walked and jogged down to the gates, and found the Ravenclaw boy already waiting at the gate, accompanied by a Ministry witch, who nodded to her curtly before Apparating away. Ginny levitated the boy’s trunk so it followed them back into the school. 

“Have I missed much?” he asked. “Is everybody else here?”

“No,” said Ginny, “And no. Here’s your timetable,” she added, and handed it over. He enthused and emoted over this for the rest of the walk back. _At least this one’s in the right house_ , she thought.

When they reached the Entrance Hall, the boy hurried off to his first lesson – Charms – and Ginny had to struggle to propel the trunk up the endless stairs of Ravenclaw tower, and by which time she was late for the prefect’s meeting. She’d chosen an empty classroom – a Hogwarts speciality – and they sat on chairs and desks in a rough circle. 

In the past, there had been four prefects from each house – two girls, two boys – in addition to a head boy and head girl, so a team of eighteen to perform all the prefect tasks. This group was a third of that. Angharad and Dominic for Slytherin, Prudence Stansfield for Ravenclaw, Arjun Chettiar and Juliana Bonny for Hufflepuff, and Ginny, representing the entirety of Griffindor and the school as a whole.

“So who are the other prefects?” asked Juliana.

“This is it,” said Ginny. “For now.”

“ _Six_ of us?” said Arjun in amazement. “When are we supposed to sleep? Why didn’t they choose some more?”

“There _aren’t_ any more,” said Ginny. “There are only a handful of sixth- and seventh-years here. Thought you’d have spotted that. The Ministry hasn’t let the rest back in yet.”

“So they’re targeting the older pupils,” said Dominic.

“But why?” asked Ginny. 

Dominic shrugged. “Just to yank our wands?”

“No,” said Arjun, flatly. “This is because of Dumbledore’s Army, isn’t it? They’re still afraid we’re going to revolt. So keep the oldest away, who might be ringleaders.”

“In that case,” said Dominic, angrily, “Let’s give them exactly that!”

“Is that what Professor McGonagall wants?” chipped in the bookish Prudence, thrilled. “How do we start?”

Ginny held up one hand in alarm, while she scrabbled through her notes. “Whoa! I’m pretty sure that’s NOT what McGonagall wants! We’re just meant to be prefects. She said, wait for the Ministry to settle down. Don’t take sides….”

Angharad gave an amused cough at that point.

“I wasn’t taking sides!” Ginny objected. “Just keeping those toerags in order!”

“What happened?” asked Arjun.

“ _Nothing…_!” said Ginny.

“Nothing?” echoed Dominic. “A group of Slytherins took Angharad and me hostage, and Ginny Stunned the lot of them, in about a second. She’s very even tempered,” he added.

“Ooh,” said Prudence.

“Look,” said Ginny, waving them down. “I shouldn’t have done it. I got carried away. Please don’t say anything to McGonagall until I’ve had time to talk to her, OK?”

“Won’t the Slytherins complain directly to her?” asked Juliana.

“Unlikely,” said Dominic. “I think they’ll keep their heads down.”

“And take it out on you two again?” Arjun suggested, to Dominic and Angharad. 

Ginny looked worriedly at Angharad, who was studying the desk she was sitting at. She looked up. “I can Stun,” she said, steadily. “If they want war, they can have it.”

Ginny stifled a strange urge to lean over and kiss her, and turned busily to her notes, hoping no-one here could read minds. _She’s not Draco_ , she told herself. _And Draco’s not Harry._


	13. The Patronus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

“You did _WHAT_?” shouted Professor McGonagall. “You haven’t been back _twenty-four hours_ , and you do this! I cannot _believe_ you can have been so stupid! Did everything I said last night not _register_? I could have asked _Andrew Kirke_ to be head boy, and _he_ wouldn’t have done anything as stupid as this _in one day_!”

“I’m really sorry…”

But McGonagall wasn’t listening. “You have totally undermined discipline in this school! I thought you would have more loyalty to Hogwarts! I thought you would _BACK ME UP_! Don’t you _care_ what happens here?”

“I…”

“Do you know how long it _took_ me to persuade the Ministry to approve your return here? I _chose_ you! A steady hand, I said to myself! A cool head! And then I had to fight for you! _Are you trying to make me look stupid_?”

“No…”

“Buck up your ideas, Miss Weasley. Don’t rush in like a fool, or you will be doing what Kirke says for the rest of the year. What are you going to do next time?”

“I…”

“Words, Miss Weasley, use words. Talk to them. Face them down. Confront them!”

“Yes, Headmistress…”

“And if that doesn’t work, hand out detentions and dock house points. Clear?”

“Yes…”

“Now, this goes no further…” began McGonagall.

“Oh, thank you!” said Ginny in relief.

“Listen! This goes no further, but if – IF! – you EVER find yourself in such a situation in future, and you cannot talk your way out of trouble, you produce your wand. That’s all. And IF that fails to work, IF you have failed to execute your job properly, then, and only then, you hex them. You Bat Bogey them. You can remember how to do that?”

Ginny realised she was staring at her Headmistress like a dead fish. “Yes…”

“And if _that_ fails, then, and only then, you Stun them. BUT NOT UNTIL. _DO_ _YOU UNDERSTAND_?”

“Yes…”

“And THEN what do you do?”

“I… I… report to you…”

“ _NO_! You OBLIVIATE them! Immediately! And _then_ you come and tell me, and hand me back your badge and your wand. DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”

“Well…”

“DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”

“Yes, Headmistress.”

“Now get out of my sight,” said Professor McGonagall. “Oh, and be back here at eight o’clock for your first Transfiguration lesson of the term. Let’s see if you can remember anything at all on _that_ subject.”

Since term had started, the weather had been poor – The sun hadn’t appeared, the sky grey and lowering, the air cold and breezy, with frequent wetting rain, to the complaint of many pupils. _It’s just the contrast_ , she told herself. _After the South of France._ Although… What had Delacour said?

Was this weather because of the Dementors? Had they deserted France, and come here, because of Voldemort? Would they _stay_ here? Whenever she met a new pupil at the main gate, she found herself peering out into the mist beyond the walls.

Ginny had never properly appreciated how many pupils the school normally held, and how big the castle was, until now. The Ministry was now approving several pupils a day, and as the days passed, it seemed that no sooner had she delivered one of them to the correct place than another was waiting at the gates for her. Squeezing her other prefect duties and homework around this was a challenge, and her evenings grew ever more full as a result. 

At one point, she pleaded to McGonagall to delegate the admission task to other prefects, but McGonagall refused. “I would have to teach the gates to accept another admitter, which would be less secure into the bargain. Besides, the other prefects are quite busy enough!”

“But I’m the only Gryffindor prefect, and…”

“I did not appoint you to moan at me,” came the tart reply. “Organise your time more effectively. And I haven’t seen any Gryffindor Quidditch practices yet!”

Ginny took to leaving her broom in the cupboard in the Entrance Hall, which meant she could fly down to the gates, but on the return trip she would have to walk back with the returning pupil, and carry the broom as well. 

Which turned out to be a mistake. The Gryffindors had just returned to the house one evening, and settled down to their homework, when a throttled scream broke the quiet of the evening. 

Definitely a girl’s scream. Ginny pelted up the girls’ staircase; A good thing she wasn’t a solitary male prefect, barred from the girls’ dormitories. She was putting her hand on a second-floor door when another scream came, nearer now, on the floor above.

Up the next flight of stairs. She opened a door, and then another. There was a girl, against the window, her arms locked against the stones of the aperture.

Beyond her was a Dementor, its hood down.

“NO!” shouted Ginny, but the Dementor didn’t flinch. Ginny pulled out her wand. “ _Expecto Patronum_!” she shouted. To her relief, a silver fox leaped from her wand, over the girl’s shoulder, and the Dementor recoiled. But another Dementor appeared, and then another. The victim was collapsing with nightmare slowness as Ginny’s Patronus fox galloped around the Dementors, snapping at them with its silver jaws, and they fell back. But there was another scream, through the window. She scrambled onto the window ledge, and leaned out to look.

To her horror, the tower was infested with Dementors, clustered around the windows, a large group of them bunched around a window below. It was a terrifying sight, and her Patronus turned to wisps, and disappeared. 

Another scream. She didn’t have time to rush downstairs. 

“ _EXPECTO PATRONUM_!” she yelled, pointing her wand directly downwards, and she nearly fell out of the window as she cast the spell. Somehow she managed to claw her way back and save herself. But her Patronus fox had reappeared, and galloped down the vertical wall towards the cluster of Dementors, who scattered like a breaking wave. But there were still Dementors clinging vermin-like around the other windows. How could she stop them all?

The girl at her feet wasn’t moving. Dead, soulless or what? The door behind her banged open, and she twisted in panic, wand at the ready, but it was Polly Newhouse, out of breath and wild-eyed.

Ginny tried to gather her thoughts. “Get… Get everybody out of the bedrooms!” she said. “Everybody into the common room!” She could fight off the Dementors if the Gryffindors were all in one place, she decided. But what about the other houses?

“What about her?” asked Polly, looking at the crumpled figure at Ginny’s feet. 

“We can’t carry her,” said Ginny in despair. “Leave her for now… Get everybody else down first! If the Dementors are attacking anyone, scream, OK? You go up, I’ll go downwards and check the boys’ staircase as well…”

Polly looked at her fearfully, but barely hesitated, and Ginny could hear her bolting up the steps. 

Ginny smashed open the other doors on the floor. There were a couple of cowering girls, but no Dementors. She screamed at them to get out, then ran down the stairs, two at a time, and repeated the exercise, pushing open door after door.

“ _Expecto Patronum_!” she yelled. There were girls on two of the beds, an open window, and clustered around each of the girls was a stain of Dementors. The Dementors shied backwards, making for the window, and she was able to pull at each girl in turn, left-handed, shove them bodily out of the door, and urge them downstairs. The rest of the floor was clear.

The floor below was prefects only, so should be empty. She skipped checking those rooms, and descended the rest of the stairs. There was a milling mob in the common room, crowding through the portrait hole. And Dementors pouring through the open window. “ _Expecto Patronum_!” she shouted, and her fox scattered the hooded figures.

She had to _think_.

“STAY AWAY FROM THE WINDOWS,” she yelled at the fleeing Gryffindors. “Shout if a Dementor attacks!” They poured out of the house. Had they heard, or were they panicking?

Dandelion-head was standing uncertainly at the back of the crowd, looking terrified. She grabbed his arm. What was his name? 

“Come with me!” she shouted. “We need to check the boys’ staircase!”

“I’m not…” he started. 

“COME ON!”

She was almost dragging him up the staircase ahead of her, and then had to dart past him. “Not this floor!” she shouted. “It’s empty. No prefects…”

“What?”

“Next floor!” she yelled, leading the way, and she could hear him following. 

She pushed open each door in turn. Nothing, nothing… “ _Expecto Patronum_!” Two small boys were kneeling on the floor, powerless against a horde of Dementors _. My fox must be getting dizzy by now_ , she thought, inconsequently. The Dementors retreated. “Get them downstairs, Dan…!” she shouted at Dandelion-head. What was his real name?

She raced up the stairs to the next floor. Nothing. Now the top floor. “ _Expecto Patronum_!” She wrenched the single victim away from the window, and bundled him out of the doorway, where he collapsed. She threw open the remaining doors. Two more boys, frozen in confusion, but no Dementors… “Get out of here!” she yelled.

She followed them downstairs, supporting the first one. “Run!” she shouted. _We can fix broken ankles_ , she told herself.

The common room was full of Dementors again. “ _Expecto Patronum_!” Her voice was going. Could she silent-spell a Patronus? “ _Expecto Patronum_!” They were leaving now.

There was a yell from upstairs. The boys’ staircase. How? She ran breathlessly up the stairs. “Who shouted?” she yelled. “Where are you?” She was running up the second flight of stairs, when the shout came again, from behind her. She nearly tumbled down the stairs by twisting around to hurry down the steps again. All the doors were open now, where they’d been shut before, to her bafflement. She ran along the line.

In the end room, three figures were transfixed by Dementors at the window. “ _Expecto Patronum_!” she screamed. _Don’t you know another tune?_ asked a voice inside her. But her faithful silver fox was driving the Dementors back, and the figures were collapsing away from the window. She grabbed one of them – a girl, only partly-dressed – and started pulling her over to the doorway. One of the other figures, dandelion-haired, climbed groggily to his feet, and started hauling at the third figure. 

She was tired now, and it was hard to drag a near-unconscious girl down the stairs without plunging head-first down them. 

More Dementors. She still hadn’t closed the window! Her fox was there again, and the room emptied once more. She clambered onto the windowsill, slammed the window shut, jumped down and hurried out of the portrait hole. “Everyone OK? Everybody all right?” she shouted. There were figures in all directions, down the stairs, on the landing below, clustered around the portrait hole, but they all seemed whole, and they were nodding, talking.

 _What have I forgotten?_ she asked herself then.

She turned back and headed through the portrait hole. No Dementors, now.

The first victim! Her legs were softening under her from exhaustion, but she made herself cross to the girls’ staircase and begin to climb. 

Polly Newhouse, white-faced, wide-eyed, was staggering down the stairs, half-carrying a girl, the girl’s arm over her shoulders. 

“Is that…?” shouted Ginny.

“That’s everybody from here,” shouted Polly. “This is the first one we found!” 

Ginny pulled at the girl’s other arm and helped Polly carry her down the stairs, and out through the portrait hole. “Is she OK?” she asked Polly.

“I don’t know,” admitted Polly. “She’s not dead.”

She recognised McGonagall’s voice out in the corridor. Now I can stop running, she told herself. I just have to stand here, and keep the Dementors away. She realised her chest was hurting.

When the distant screams started, it was hard to open her eyes. She realised she was leaning against the wall next to the portrait hole. The noise was from the window. What?

It was hard to even walk now, but she crossed to the window. No Dementors in sight, so she could open the window. 

The screams were louder now, but not nearby. She had to hoist herself dangerously up at the window to look out. Nothing… No! In the distance was a flock of circling Dementors. Who was out there?

The Quidditch pitch! Instinct made her drop down from the window and run towards the portrait hole, even though she knew she’d never make it in time.

She stopped and twisted round. “Broomstick!” she shouted. “I need a broomstick!” 

But all she got was distant shouts. There wasn’t one conveniently in the common room. Hers… Hers was in the Entrance Hall cupboard. So the nearest one had to be in a dormitory. At least two floors up. She ran up the girls’ staircase, her legs like jelly now. The first door she came to was for first-years. No! Second door. There was an open trunk, and she callously dragged out a handful of clothing. No broom. The next trunk was closed but not locked. She could see a broom handle! Again, she was scattering someone’s belongings in all directions as she heaved it out and dragged it to the window. 

It would have been nice, she thought, to have got on the broom and flown out of the window, but the window was too narrow. The only way was to squeeze through the window, stand on the edge of the sloping sill, with a dizzyingly endless drop below her, hold the broomstick tightly against herself and jump.

 _This is a really bad idea_ , she told herself, as she plummeted, trying to straddle the broomstick. To her horror, the broom didn’t respond, and continued to fall. It must have an anti-theft jinx! The ground was approaching hideously rapidly. Would it help to jump off?

Suddenly the broom seemed to awaken, her descent slowed abruptly, nearly wrenching her off the broom, and she could then steer, pushing the handle in the direction of the Quidditch pitch, her feet brushing the ground annoyingly. 

As she approached, the pitch looked like a battle scene. Everywhere were groups of Dementors, feasting on a dozen figures, and there were flocks of them flying around her. There was such a rage in her now, fuelled by exhaustion, and the battle, and the hopelessness. The Dementors had won.

She hit the ground hard, rolled and got to her feet. She dragged out her wand. “ _EXPECTO PATRONUM_!” she screamed in fury. Her wand seemed to jolt like a living thing in her hand, and something huge leaped from the tip.

 _What’s gone wrong? Where’s my silver fox?_ Her knees were buckling under the futility of it, the defeat…

The sky was clearing, like magic, and Ginny could only stare in wonder. She heard once more that strange thudding the Dementors had made as they’d retreated from the Giant, weeks ago. There had to be at least a hundred of them, and they were being pursued across the sky by a huge, amazing, awe-inspiring white spectre. 

It twisted around, and she could see it clearly now. A rhinoceros! The huge plated animal was tossing its head, left and right, charging the Dementors down, sweeping them away with its horn. Patronuses were always elegant. Lithe, beautiful, almost angelic. But her new Patronus was none of these things. It hunted the Dementors like a vengeful god, until they scattered across the heavens, fleeing its rage. Round and round he thundered, so she could almost hear him.

She wanted to get up, to cheer, to tell him he was amazing, but all she could do now was kneel on the turf, and catch her breath. 

Not a single Dementor was left now, and her new Patronus was thundering through the air towards her. It came to a skidding, uncoordinated stop in front of her, gleaming like a silver sun, and lowered its head. She reached out her hand, her arm aching now. Her hand touched… something. The lightest feather touch. Hadn’t Harry managed to touch his Patronus once, when it rescued his other self, years ago?

The rhinoceros vanished, to her disappointment. Now, she knew, she had to get up.

People were running towards her. All around her were fallen figures, but some were moving. _Time to count the cost_ , she told herself. Harry had said something like that, once. Who had she failed to save? Just because they were moving, that didn’t mean anything, did it _? If you have no soul, can you still walk? Am I surrounded by Inferi?_

Here was the matron, and Professor Sprout. They seemed to look straight through her, as they ran from figure to figure, both the moving and the still, their hands on each in turn. They used their wands to lift the limp forms, wafting them from the pitch, followed by limping figures, and Madam Pomfrey hurried after them. Professor Sprout turned then and trudged towards her. The pitch must be huge, Ginny thought giddily, if it takes so long to walk across it. 

She tried to call out, but she couldn’t even speak.

Her old Herbology teacher was frowning at her. _I did my best!_ Ginny wanted to say.

“What was _that_?” asked Sprout. 

“How many?” Ginny managed. “How many…?”

She got a look of puzzlement in return. Professor Sprout was looking her age, she realised. “Souls,” Ginny said eventually.

Sprout’s expression cleared. “How many did we lose?” she asked. 

Ginny nodded, fearfully.

“None,” said Professor Sprout. “Not one. And what _was_ that?”

Ginny was sure that whenever Harry had pulled off one his habitual miracles, Poppy Pomfrey had then equally habitually rushed him off to the hospital wing, where he could stay until he had recovered. This didn’t seem to be part of the service anymore, and she had to push herself unsteadily to her feet and limp across the Quidditch pitch, at Professor Sprout’s side, over to the Entrance Hall.

As they climbed the steps to the main doors, the tiny figure of Professor Flitwick came trotting out, holding his wand in the air. She watched the sky darken from pale to pearlescent grey as a shield formed over the castle.

At least she didn’t have to talk. They met McGonagall coming down the stairs to the Entrance Hall. Listening was hard, too, although some words broke through.

“Rhinoceros… Did you see the Dementors’ reaction…? That sound… Emergency procedure… No, I’ve never seen so many… Blame Voldemort… Lucky that new boy… I’ll have words with Fawcett… Every bit as bad as her sister… We need to lock the prefects’ bedrooms… No, still not back yet… Lucky… Extraordinarily lucky…”

She was back in her own room now, she realised. Pablo was roosting on the bull’s painting again, and the latter was furious, and thudding monotonously into the canvas separating him from the annoying owl. _Must get Pablo a better cage_ , she thought wearily, as she sagged onto her bed.

And after that, even thuds and bellows could not rouse her from sleep.


	14. The New Army

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

Breakfast seemed a very noisy meal, and she had a headache. The noise started as soon as she reached the Great Hall, and people were thumping her on the back and yelling in her ear. She staggered to the Gryffindor table and sat, but every time she reached for anything it was shoved in front of her by some willing hand. They didn’t actually spoon-feed her, to her relief, and she was allowed to butter and eat her own toast, but the buffeting back-slaps continued. The toast helped, though, and her vision cleared. Sitting opposite her were Polly Newhouse and Dandelion-head. Polly was looking at her with a pleased expression. The other’s face was more ambiguous.

It was hard to remember yesterday, in anything but fragments, but it was easier with their faces in her eyes.

“Thanks, Polly,” she managed to say, eventually. “Thanks, Dan… Abraham.”

“ _We_ didn’t save all those lives,” said Polly, hugely amused.

“Souls,” put in Abraham. 

“Souls,” agreed Polly, leaning over good-humouredly to shove Abraham for his pedantry. 

He looked surprised. “And you can call me Dan,” he said to Ginny. “If you like.”

Polly turned to look at him. “So how did you know about Emily and Rob?” she asked.

He looked alarmed. “I didn’t…”

Polly laughed disbelievingly.

“No, I really didn’t,” he protested. “I don’t know about… things like that… I just thought…”

“Thought what?” Ginny asked, curiously.

“Well,” said Abraham, uncomfortably, “That… if anyone wanted to do anything… they didn’t want anybody to know about…” He took a breath. “…They’d use the empty prefect bedrooms. The boys’ ones,” he amplified, “because the boys can’t get to the girls’ ones.”

“Dead right,” said Polly. “As it happens. Naughty Emily! Probably gave the Dementors a shock, too.”

Abraham looked equally embarrassed, and worried as well. Ginny frowned meaningfully at Polly, who tactfully changed the subject. 

“So, when are we going to get to meet this rhino of yours, then?” she asked Ginny.

“Not too soon, I hope,” said Ginny. “It was a shock for me too,” she admitted. “I actually… met… a rhino recently, but I’m not sure how it got into my Patronus.”

“Quite a sight, they’re saying,” said Polly with relish. “Let’s hope next time it’s during an actual Quidditch match, so we can all get a good view.”

“So… this happens all the time here?” asked Abraham, worriedly.

“No,” said Polly. “No way. Well, some Dementors got into the school in my first year, but they were invited.”

“ _Invited_?”

“Yeah, they used to be on our side,” said Polly. “Sort of. But how they got in now, I have no idea.”

“Could someone have invited them this time?” asked Abraham, worriedly.

“There are nicer ways of killing yourself,” said Polly. “And the protection around the castle should keep them out.”

“So when do we learn about Pa-whatsits?” asked Abraham. 

“Patronuses? Oh, not for ages yet,” said Polly. “ _I_ still don’t know how. How about,” she asked, turning to Ginny, “How about asking that hunk boyfriend of yours along to teach us?”

Ginny didn’t have the energy to shout, and her head still hurt. “He’s not my boyfriend!” she muttered.

“But he taught you, yeah?” persisted Polly. “That’s what I heard, anyway.”

“Yes,” conceded Ginny, wearily. “He did. But he won’t be coming here.”

Her head was still throbbing after breakfast when she was walking along to Potions, and someone large hurried out of a hidden doorway and cannoned into her. 

“Sorry!” said a familiar voice. “Oh…”

“Oh,” echoed Ginny, shaken by the collision and the voice. “Fancy being run over by you,” she said.

“How are you?” asked Harry.

“Me? Overworked, unpaid. What are you doing here?”

“Defence Against the Dark Arts,” he said. “McGonagall asked me. Didn’t you know?”

“Nobody tells me anything,” she said shortly, looking up at him. He was so tall, wasn’t he? Without most of the older students here, everyone here was as small as her, nearly… “What about the day job?” she asked. “Given that up already?”

He shook his head. “I’m just popping in when I can,” he said. “First day here…”

“Did McGonagall talk to you? About Dementors, I mean?”

“She said something…”

“ _She said something_? We were just about overrun by the little buggers yesterday! Crawling all over Gryffindor like it was a jam pot!”

“Minerva said you coped.”

“ _Did_ she?” she snapped. “Did _Minerva_ mention I was about the only pupil here with a Patronus? That we nearly lost the entire Hufflepuff Quidditch squad? How about some Patronus lessons for everybody, Potter?”

“Can’t you do it?” he asked. “I hear you have a pretty good Patronus these days.”

“No, I can’t,” she said, annoyed. “I’ve barely time to scratch my nose!”

He reached up to touch her nose, but she batted his hand away. “Grrr!” he said. “I love it when you’re fierce.” He tried to put his arms around her, but she backed away, quickly.

“I’m not in the mood, Potter,” she said, crossly. 

“Look,” he said, “Give it a go, and see how it goes. I can’t teach everybody anyway, and neither can you. Get a core group together, teach them, they can spread the word.”

“Oh, come on, Harry! Give me some pointers, here! Before we lose a houseful!”

His tone was suddenly quieter, less jocular. “Did you hear about Hogsmeade?” he asked.

“McGonagall told us they’d been attacked.”

“Attacked. That’s all she said?” She nodded, worried now. “There’s a big stone barn on the outskirts of the village,” he said heavily. “Full of them, and a single Healer wandering around without a clue.”

“A _barn_ full? Their souls…?”

“Gone,” said Harry. There was a weariness in his eyes now, but they still seemed to drink her in as he looked at her. “What do we do with them? No-one has a clue.”

“Anyone we know?” she asked fearfully.

“Madam Rosmerta…”

“No!”

“… One of the women at the post office… Oh, the guy who runs Honeydukes, the big one, I mean…”

Ginny remembered him vividly. He’d always smiled at her, a big, beaming smile. “We’ve got to stop this!” she whispered in horror.

He shrugged, in pain. “How? Not everyone can manage a Patronus, you know that. And there’s no cure for a Dementor. They’ll probably go after a while. They do that.”

“So, what do we do _now_?”

“What we can, I suppose. Teach Patronus to everyone we can. Shield everywhere possible. But there aren’t many who can cast _those_ spells either.”

She shivered. “We need Dumbledore back,” she found herself saying.

“We need a lot of them back, but we’ll have to manage.”

They were standing next to a window, she realised, with the perpetual depressingly grey light casting a shade everywhere. “How are we supposed to teach Patronuses, when it’s like this?” she asked, crossly. “Everyone’s down at the moment.”

“No! They’re not! My class today – fourth-years – they were bouncing off the walls! They couldn’t stop talking about rhinos!”

She grabbed his arm then, and looked up into his face. “Harry… What if I can’t do it again? What then?”

“That’s why we need lots of fox-sized Patronuses, Ginny. Let’s get away from this Chosen One thinking, yeah? Let’s rebuild Dumbledore’s Army. Then he _will_ be here again, as good as. And that’ll drive away the Dementors.” 

She had hoped that Harry would be there for her next Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson, hoping to make him talk about Patronuses then, but he didn’t turn up, to her annoyance.

“He’s a busy man,” McGonagall said when Ginny tackled her about it. “He comes when he can.”

She made a snap decision to call a prefect’s meeting, and announced she was going to try and teach them the Patronus spell, then and there. They were all nodding. “Yeah!” said Dominic. “I want one of those big ones…”

She shook her head, angrily. “I can’t teach those,” she said. “I don’t know how I did it myself. But I talked to… someone… who said it’s better to have lots of ordinary Patronuses anyway.”

“Fine,” said Juliana. “Small is good. So what do we have to do?”

“Look,” said Ginny, worriedly, “I remember it took a lot of lessons, even with Harry. Don’t get your hopes up. But we need to try.” 

“We can do that,” said Arjun.

“OK, we need to do this standing up…” They all obeyed. “The spell’s easy enough,” said Ginny, still unsure. “ _Expecto Patronum_ …”

“ _Expecto Patronum_!” they all chanted.

Ginny nodded. “Harry said, the hard part is thinking of something happy enough. Something that makes you feel good.”

“Like a birthday party?” suggested Juliana, uncertainly.

“Something more than that,” said Ginny, but she wasn’t sure either. “I think about…” She had to stop.

“About what?” asked Dominic, puzzled.

_I have to do this_ , Ginny told herself. “I think about… when Harry saved my life, and killed a monster, and a phoenix saved _his_ life.”

“Wow,” said Arjun quietly.

“Not many of us have experiences like that,” said Angharad.

“Yes, we have,” said Juliana. “How many of you were watching the Quidditch pitch last night?” She put her hand up, and so did Arjun. Angharad and Dominic shook their heads, of course – they had been in the dungeon Slytherin common room at the time – but Prudence put her hand up as well. “I could see it from Ravenclaw common room,” she said.

“Is that enough?” queried Dominic, dubiously.

“Why not?” asked Juliana, looking at Ginny. “I remember so clearly… We thought the end had come. I was in the stands, watching Arjun run the trials – and down came these hideous Dementors, endless flocks of them, and I thought we’d lost everyone, and all I could see was Dementors. Everyone on the pitch was covered in them, and then the Dementors were attacking me as well. We were meant to be looking after our house, and we’d let this happen to them… And then this figure on a broom appeared, straight towards them all, like an arrow. I could hardly see past the Dementors. And then someone was _stirring_ them, as if they had a stick. And this huge silver animal… So strong. So tough… Unbeatable... I could hear this strange noise, a deep beating sound I could almost feel, and the Dementors were leaving, escaping, every single one of them… I remember standing up, and jumping like a fool, and waving my arms, and cheering…”

“ _EXPECTO PATRONUM_!” they all shouted, and the room was full of silver figures.


	15. Spinny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

Harry continued to come in to teach DADA lessons, but never to her class. Every time her class was scheduled, something came up at the last moment, and he couldn’t make it. 

As well as being angry with him, she was growing increasingly concerned about her lack of progress on Defence Against the Dark Arts. Yes, she’d learned a lot while a member of Dumbledore’s Army, things that had kept her alive so far, but not enough to pass her exams, and it was nearly the end of term. When was the Ministry going to allow a proper full-time DADA teacher into Hogwarts? Charms was another nightmare. Flitwick was stubbornly continuing to focus entirely on the lower years, and she had no tricks up her sleeve for Charms. And without good enough N.E.W.T.s, her chances of getting a job were small. And the promised French language lessons weren’t turning up either.

Although, with the school in lockdown, she had little time for her studies anyway. Plenty of students had yet to return, and her year in particular was still woefully short on numbers. Was the Ministry putting a stranglehold on Hogwarts? Were they trying to make the school fail? She was still the only Gryffindor prefect, and doing the work of four, while being Head Girl – without a Head Boy – was becoming a huge strain. Angharad and Dominic were still waging war on the Slytherin students, whose behaviour was made worse by the lockdown, and it was essential she supported them. 

The Patronus lessons were going OK – they were keeping their targets modest, and only looking for a fraction of the pupils to be able to perform a Patronus – but trying to organise the lessons, using an ever-increasing number of tutors, with ever more pupils clamouring to learn, kept her busy.

Even with this safety valve, the pupils were getting increasingly fractious. Because of the lockdown, they weren’t allowed outside – except for Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures lessons – and Quidditch was banned, of course. The result was more friction between the houses, with fights breaking out, bullying of junior years and jeering at each other when they passed in the corridors. The new intake seemed particularly unhappy, and several prefects reporting worries that several pupils didn’t believe they were in the right house. Dan swore he hadn’t said anything to anyone when she angrily tackled him on the subject. 

And it wasn’t just the new pupils who were complaining they were in the wrong house. The Sorting Hat’s words had upset everybody, it seemed. Fights kept breaking out: Between rebels, who wanted to end the house system and reactionaries, who couldn’t conceive of anything else. Between the houses. And between the paranoids and those who just couldn’t keep their opinions to themselves. 

She discussed all this with Angharad, and then the rest of the prefects, and she gathered the captains of the various Hogwarts societies – Gobstones, Wizard Chess, Potions Club, Muggle Football and the rest – and asked them to arrange inter-house tournaments including anyone they could scrape up. Then she bullied Filch into allowing her to clear the tables from the Great Hall between meals so the footballers could play indoors. All this, plus awarding increased numbers of house points, did seem to settle the jitters. 

She took to discussing issues more and more with Angharad in particular. She told herself this wasn’t because Malfoy had looked like her, and in fact Angharad was smart and clued-up about her own house and Slytherin, and a number of good ideas came from their discussions. Their friendship grew, even when Ginny could ignore the frisson of talking to Draco’s double.

But too much of her time was spent walking from one place to another within the castle and down to the main gate. And because of the Dementors and the lockdown, she could no longer keep the new arrivals waiting, and had to be there ahead of them. Her own teachers were unhappy too, because she was frequently absent for periods of their lessons, and invariably late arriving.

Then a Ministry witch - kept waiting for twenty minutes while Ginny dealt with a fight between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, of all things - complained bitterly to her department, and the complaint made its way back to Hogwarts. 

“Come and see me in my office,” said McGonagall, curtly, one lunchtime.

Ginny was permanently tired now, and even the thought that she was going to have her prefect badges taken away from her gave her a feeling of hope and relief, of release from an impossible task. She was talking to herself as well by now. 

“Which floor is this? Third… Maybe I could cut Potions, and get some rest… It’s stopped raining… When am I going to sort the Quidditch team selections…? Must stop Peeves throwing suits of armour out of windows…”

She was in front of the gargoyle. What was the password, now? “Kilt,” she tried. No response. No, it was… “Ceilidh…” The gargoyle sprung athletically out of the way. “Show off,” muttered Ginny, as she plodded tiredly up the spiral stairs.

The upright chair in front of McGonagall’s desk looked very inviting, but she didn’t get to use it. “Here,” said the Headmistress, holding out something to her. “Take this. And don’t lose it.”

It was a circle of woven metal. Looking at the strands made her eyes strain, as they seemed to pass through each other in impossible ways. 

“Put it on your wrist,” said McGonagall. “No, other wrist. Your wand arm.” She obeyed. The bracelet wasn’t uncomfortable - although the metal seemed solid, it fit snugly around her wrist. She ran the fingers of her other hand over it uncertainly and looked up at the Headmistress.

“Think of it as a key,” said McGonagall. “A token. It is normally only issued to staff, under special circumstances.”

“Key?”

“The charms around this school will recognise it,” said McGonagall. “With it, you will be able to Apparate within the castle, and in the grounds. But you will still have to use the main gate to travel outside Hogwarts. Is that clear?”

“Whoa…” said Ginny, impressed, gazed at the bracelet. McGonagall was holding something else out to her, and she looked up: A pupil timetable. “You can try it out now,” said McGonagall. “You’ll need to practise your Side-Along Apparition; For your first time, that will have to be with me.” She walked around the desk and took Ginny’s arm. 

Ginny concentrated on the main gate in her mind’s eye. It was a very familiar sight by now, and it was wonderfully easy to twist into nothing and find herself at the gate, before anyone else arrived.

McGonagall released her arm. “Try not to splinch the students,” she said, and turned and walked back up the drive.

Two figures popped into existence behind Ginny, and then the taller figure – a portly wizard - disappeared with barely a nod to her.

“Hi, Chu-Sai,” said Ginny as she pulled the girl through the charm barrier. “Leave your trunk here; I’ll be back for it in a second. Here’s your timetable…”

The third-year looked totally bemused to find herself suddenly in the Entrance Hall, but Ginny wordlessly stepped away and twisted back to the main gate, and was then in the Hufflepuff common room to dump the trunk. She was actually early for her next lesson, and to Slughorn’s surprise, she was waiting inside his locked classroom when he arrived. 

People got used to her spinning around the castle. The teachers barely batted an eyelid when she spun into and out of their lessons, and the prefects grew used to her turning up beside them with a message. Regular miscreants found their free time frequently - if briefly - shared by the Head Girl. Someone christened her Spinny Weasley, which annoyed her at first, but she grew to accept the name. She became a regular visitor to the hospital wing whenever she managed to splinch herself, but she was careful not to do this to anyone she Apparated with. Some splinched trunks spewed their contents everywhere on a couple of occasions, but she discovered a useful welding spell, and if the trunk contents weren’t always in the right order after she’d repacked them, no-one had the nerve to complain. Spinny was less tired and bad-tempered nowadays, they all said, but she still had a bite like an Acromantula.

It was the start of December - and the weather was changing from cold, grey and murky to icy, grey and murky - when she spun down to the main gate to welcome yet another arrival, but no Ministry witch or wizard appeared, and instead of a student there was a grown man. 

“Er…” she said handing over the timetable she’d been given, only now realising that it was considerably heavier than a normal one. 

He didn’t speak, but studied her, his face unmoving, as he took the timetable, slowly and carefully. He wasn’t that old, she decided, and quite handsome, if unsmiling.

“Who are you?” he asked. 

“Spinny… I mean, Ginny Weasley,” she said. “Head Girl. For now.” Even with the bracelet, it was still a dream of hers that all this activity would stop.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked next.

“No…”

“Erasmus Stonelake,” he said carefully, unnervingly giving her the feeling that he wasn’t familiar with his own name. 

“Are you going to be teaching here?” she asked.

“Yes.” Guardedly, as if it was a secret.

“That’s… great. Sir… Can I ask… What subject?”

“Defence,” he said eventually. “Against the Dark Arts.”

“Oh, wonderful!” she said. “Teaching everyone?”

“I believe so.”

“That’s a load off my mind,” she confessed. “Sir. I haven’t had a single DADA lesson yet, and we’ve been back two months.”

And no more Harry, turning up and distracting her. Or not turning up, and annoying her. 

“Let’s get you up to the school,” she said, briskly. “Take my arm, and we’ll Apparate…”

“No,” said Stonelake, recoiling.

“No?”

“We should walk,” he said.

She would have consented to crawling up to the school on her hands and knees, in the circumstances. He seemed to be light on luggage: Only a slender grey leather case, which he held onto determinedly.

“I understood the protection in Hogwarts prevented Apparating within the grounds,” he said as they walked up the hill. 

“Normally, yes… Sir… but we’re down on prefect numbers, so Professor McGonagall loaned me this,” she said, holding up her bracelet. He glanced at it briefly, and was then silent for some time.

“That implies a substantial amount of trust,” he said eventually, in his thoughtful way.

“I’m not sure the Headmistress has much choice,” she said lightly. “I’m doing about six jobs at the moment. Sir.”

It was an effort to call him Sir; He seemed too young – and good-looking - to be a teacher, despite his distant air.

“Which is how mistakes occur,” he said. There was no audible emotion in his voice, but she felt rebuked all the same.

“I do my best,” she said defensively, but he didn’t respond to that.

They were in the Entrance Hall. “Shall I take you to see Professor McGonagall?” she asked. “Sir?”

“No,” he answered. “My classroom, please.”

She took him up to the DADA classroom. It was occupied when they got there: Juliana was coaching a small group in Patronuses, and looked askance at Stonelake when he entered the room and put his case down on a desk. Ginny mutely gestured for them to leave, and Juliana hustled her charges out.

“Why is a student teaching other students Patronuses?” Stonelake asked. “Do you have permission?”

“Yes, Professor,” said Ginny uncertainly. “Because of the Dementor infestation. Without a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, we don’t have any choice.”

“So how many pupils can perform a Patronus?” he asked. Still no emotion there. Was she in trouble now? But McGonagall hadn’t told her to conceal anything, had she?

“So far, about one in ten,” she said. “We’d like to be up to one in three. If we can get there.”

He didn’t respond to that; He was walking slowly around the classroom, examining everything – desks, windows, walls – with deliberation. 

When he’d finished, he turned to her, and his face cracked into a smile, a warm one, quite at odds with his lack of expression so far.

“Thank you for being honest,” he said.

“That’s OK,” she said uncertainly, and turned to go, but then she turned back. “Speaking of honesty… Are you sure you want this job? Most of the previous ones are dead…”

He didn’t look concerned; He merely shrugged, and turned away, and examined the walls of the room once more. Should she go now? “I’d aim for half,” he said after a pause. “People panic. If half your pupils can produce a Patronus, your survival rate will be higher.”

What was she supposed to say to that? “Thanks,” she managed.

“There are worse things than dying,” he said quietly, as she left the room.


	16. The Unexpected Guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

“I have some more good news for you,” said Professor McGonagall as Ginny was about to leave the classroom after a Transfiguration lesson. “You have two Gryffindor prefects arriving tomorrow morning. I am coming to suspect that there is still some anti-Muggle feeling within the Ministry, which is why they’re being so slow in releasing these two to us.”

Ginny was filled with sudden alarm. “Wait!” she said loudly. “ _Two Muggles_? You don’t mean the _Balsam twins_ , do you? _Prefects_?”

A frown appeared between McGonagall’s eyebrows. “I’d rather you did not question my decisions, Miss Weasley,” she said frostily. “They are both sensible girls, and I am sure they will provide you with invaluable assistance!”

“ _Sensible_ …?” said Ginny before she managed to stop herself. “Great.”

“Two of them, Ginny,” McGonagall called out as she left the classroom. “Apparate one of them at a time, or walk!”

The Balsams arrived just after lunch the following day. Ginny was still tempted to Apparate with the pair of them, on the basis that a little less Balsam would be a plus, but she resisted the urge and walked them back to the school.

The Balsam twins weren’t actually twins. In fact, they were almost two years apart in age, but the elder, Emerald, was in Ginny’s year, and Ruby the year below. Nor were they identical: Ruby was a head shorter than her sister. But both had wavy light-brown hair, similar builds and similar features. And makeup. Examining them afresh, Ginny could see that Ruby had a smaller mouth, where Emerald’s was slightly crooked. Both were heavily made up, with pencilled eyebrows, which accented their similarities. If you prised Emerald apart in the middle, Ginny had long thought, there would be an empty space where Ruby fitted, just like those Russian dolls.

“House, first,” said Emerald when they reached the Entrance Hall. “Need to fix our faces. Come with?” she asked Ginny.

“No thanks,” said Ginny, but as luck would have it the three of them ascended the stairs to the first floor together. Ginny was about to leave them when Emerald reached out an arm and opened a classroom door. 

A spell shot over their heads. Professor Stonelake was teaching a DADA class to fourth-years, and one of his pupil’s aim was poor. “Get out!” called Stonelake, and Ginny pulled Emerald away from the doorway and slammed the door. 

“He’s cute,” commented Emerald. “Who is he?” She tried the next classroom, which was empty. She beckoned Ginny inside and collapsed inelegantly into a chair by a table. Ruby slid into the chair next to her, leaned one elbow on the table, plonked her chin on her hand and stared at Ginny blankly. Ginny sat opposite them, and found herself sitting stiffly upright, McGonagall-like, and clearing her throat.

“We wondered whether you’d be glad to see us,” said Emerald.

“Meaning what?”

“McGonagall said, you were running around like… What did she call it?” she enquired of her sister.

“A blue-arsed fly,” said Ruby, still staring at Ginny.

“Yeah,” agreed Emerald. “And that you’d be dead glad to see us. _She_ said, but I doubted it.” Ginny could see that Emerald was sporting a new Muggle tattoo on the inside of her wrist. _Wait until McGonagall sees that_ , she thought in annoyance.

“Oh?”

“Right. So we’ve never got on, you and I. Why’s that, do you think?”

“Don’t take it personally,” snapped Ginny. “I don’t get on with Ruby either.”

“So is this a pure blood-mudblood thing?”

“No!” said Ginny in annoyance.

“No. _You_ just think all _we_ think about is boys and hair dos. Yeah?”

“And makeup,” Ginny found herself saying.

“And makeup. Right,” said Emerald. “Thought so. And _we_ thought you were up yourself, whole Chosen One’s girl, that kind of thing. So we just need to get something straight.”

Ginny found her fingers straying to her wand pocket.

“We’re not going to attack you,” said Emerald, calmly. “We just want to say something.”

“Say what?”

“Last year,” said Emerald, “And the year before that, we were thinking that all this rushing around, saving the world stuff, that it was all… well, a waste of time. And energy. All this magic-folk talk about Death Eaters… Well, all a bit of an exaggeration, we thought. Right, Rube?”

“Right,” said Ruby. She was still staring blankly at Ginny.

“We had other worries. OK, you don’t care about your appearance – no, don’t take that the wrong way, not an insult, just a fact – but to us it matters. We want to look right. That’s all. Doesn’t harm anybody, does it?”

“No,” Ginny found herself forced to say, despite her irritation.

“Right,” said Emerald. “But then came end of last year. Army of Death Eaters outside the castle. A battle. Giants. Lots of. Deaths, lots of. Well, we had to pay attention then, didn’t we, Ruby?”

“Yeah,” said Ruby.

“So,” said Emerald. “So. It wasn’t all made up, was it? There was a real threat out there. We just hadn’t believed in it.” She held up the palms of her hands. “Our mistake. So we’re thinking, don’t like this, but you’re owed an apology.”

“What?”

“Ruby and I were saying, when they eventually allowed us back in here, let’s have a clean sheet, OK? We don’t judge you, you don’t judge us, right? And when it comes to this whole prefect thing, you’re the boss, OK?”

“OK,” said Ginny, still unsure.

It was intriguing, Ginny discovered, watching Emerald sauntering along the corridors when others were around. Partly it was that self-confidence, something that Ginny felt she lacked. The elder Balsam, she decided, had boundless quantities of self-belief. But it was the reaction of others that was particularly interesting. The other Gryffindors treated Emerald casually, although with unmistakable respect. But pupils from the other houses seemed almost scared of her. They would nod and smile at Ginny, but they would look uncertainly at Emerald. Was she looking at a reformed bully, here?

Or an unreformed bully?

Ginny had never had any problems with Emerald. They’d always ignored each other, really, until now. Ruby had tried it on a few times with Ginny when she’d first arrived at the school, but Ginny had simply rounded on her and given her a kick, which seemed to stop her, and Emerald had never commented. But there was no sign of that kind of behaviour now.

Did other houses see Gryffindors differently? Being a Gryffindor was about courage, as far as the Gryffindors were concerned, but did the other houses see the other side of that coin? _Are we all thugs, to them?_

Emerald Balsam could well be that, she mused. She certainly had no problems in enforcing discipline, and Ginny’s life was definitely easier with Emerald to support her. She discovered she was less likely to get mouthy responses to any unpopular decisions she made – about detentions, for example - and the pupils seemed to treat her with more respect. That could have been down to the Battle of the Quidditch Pitch, of course, but Ginny felt Emerald was the main reason.

Aidan Okafor had an entirely different prefect style. He turned up a few days after the Balsams, and even though they were theoretically still short of a house prefect, it grew much easier with Aidan there. He could deal with the boys’ staircase bedtimes, for example, without being subjected to gratuitous displays of body parts. And Aidan was always jovial. While Ginny found her temper often got in the way when she had to deal with unreasonable behaviour, he could often joke better conduct out of the Gryffindors, particularly the more ebullient ones.

She even had time now to think about the Quidditch team. Matches were on hold at the moment, of course, but the Gryffindors – and Professor McGonagall – were on her case because she hadn’t even had time to select the team, never mind train them. Andrew Kirke, for one, was taking it personally.

“Look,” he would repeat with increasing desperation, “I know you think I’m no good. I understand. But you will keep me in the team, yeah?”

“There is no team, Andrew!” she would repeat nearly as frequently. “There’s no Quidditch! Remember?”

She’d been worrying about where they could hold the trials now. The other houses had selected their teams before the Dementor-induced ban, but what could she do now? Have them running along the corridor on their brooms? A multiple-choice exam?

But when she eventually had time, she had an idea as well. She spun up to the seventh floor and paced up and down a familiar corridor, concentrating hard. “I need somewhere to play Quidditch,” she said to herself. Would this work? It was only a room, after all… “I need somewhere to play Quidditch… I need somewhere to play Quidditch…”

This wasn’t going to work, was it? She turned towards the wall – and there was a door. Fearfully, almost, she cracked open the door and peered inside. 

The Room of Requirements was now a huge hollow space, stretching in all directions. At each end were three hoops, high up in the air. Right in front of her was a box of Quidditch balls, with a whistle resting on the top. Beside this was a scoring box. Against the wall behind her was a line of brooms. There was even a little spectator stand opposite the door.

Surely this means there was now a huge box, jutting out over the Hogwarts battlements? But she knew by now this was a stupid thought: That wasn’t how the Room of Requirements worked, was it?

It was strange, all the same, playing Quidditch indoors. The room echoed with their shouts, and the whistle was particularly ear-splitting. She wished Neville was there; He would have known how to change the room to exactly the way he wanted. But she was able to bring all the hopefuls up here and try them out. 

It wasn’t a great trial, all the same. Andrew Kirke hadn’t improved with age, unsurprisingly, but he was about the only player with any experience. With a yawning gap where the upper years were meant to be, she had to recruit Aidan, ignoring his laughing protestations, as her second Beater, Polly Newhouse as her lead Chaser, along with third-year Euan Abercrombie and first-year Cwenhild Oldham, a surprise to everyone including the girl herself, but who had proved impressively agile. Ginny would even have welcomed back her brother Ron as Keeper, though. The candidates were lacking either in reaction time, concentration, or coordination, and often all three.

In desperation she held off deciding on Keeper, upsetting all the candidates, and tracked down Emerald in the library, of all places.

“Me?” whispered back Emerald. “What do I know about Quidditch?”

“More than these lunkheads, probably,” snapped Ginny, getting raised eyebrows from Madam Pince.

“Last time I sat on a broom, I fell off,” said Emerald.

“Oh…”

“Look, why don’t you ask Ruby?” suggested Emerald, quietly.

“Does she have any Quidditch experience?”

“No,” admitted Emerald. “But then neither do I.”

“Yeah, but _Ruby_? She’s never going to do anything I ask…”

“Try her,” Emerald said.

Ginny would infinitely have preferred not to ask Ruby. Her expression of dumb insolence always enraged Ginny, even when Ruby nodded and performed the prefect duties she was asked, and the idea of her in the team dismayed her. But memories of the Keeper trials drove her to find Ruby anyway.

“Say what?” said Ruby. She was lounging in the Gryffindor common room, curling her eyelashes around her wand.

“Quidditch Keeper,” repeated Ginny. “You have to stop the opposition putting Quaffles through our hoops. Three of them.”

“Three…? So are there three Keepers, then?”

“Look,” said Ginny, exasperated, “Just come and look, OK?”

Ruby carefully and deliberately finished her other eye before stowing away her mirror and following her up to the Room of Requirements. The door had disappeared, of course, so she had to put up with Ruby’s single raised and sculpted eyebrow as she paced up and down the corridor. But the Quidditch pitch was still there, to her relief.

At least Ruby seemed comfortable on a broom, and obediently angled up to hover in front of the hoops. “Now what?” she said.

“I’ll try and get the Quaffle past you, OK?” said Ginny, exasperated. This was a total waste of time.

“What?”

“Look,” said Ginny wrathfully. “Haven’t you _been_ to any Quidditch matches?”

“Have you been to any footie matches?” said Ruby.

“No…”

“Well, I won’t hold it against you. Where’s this waffle, then?”

“ _Quaffle_! This thing!” Ginny lobbed the Quaffle, and it sped straight through the centre hoop. Ruby watched it go.

“And I have to stop it?” inquired Ruby.

“Yes!”

“I’ll need some practice,” said Ruby.

“ _Obviously_ ,” snarled Ginny. “How about now?”

“OK, then.”

Ginny retrieved the Quaffle and tried again, five times, to match the trial of the other Keepers. Ruby was worse than any other candidate so far, to Ginny’s annoyance, and missed every shot.

“OK,” said Ginny. “Thanks for trying.”

“Is that it?” asked Ruby.

“Yes.”

“I don’t have to do anything else? I mean, apart from stop the waffle going through these hoops?”

“ _Quaffle_. Yes, that’s all there is to it.”

“Can I have another go?” asked Ruby. “I think I’ve got it sussed now. Thought it was more complicated than that, to tell the truth.”

“Seriously? You want another go?”

“Yeah. Why not?”

“Well, all the other… Oh, forget it…” Gloomily, Ginny retrieved the Quaffle and threw it at the left-hand hoop.

Ruby caught it, to Ginny’s surprise.

“You don’t have to catch it,” she explained. “Just knock it out of the way.”

“Yeah, right,” said Ruby. “And then we’re back where we started. How about this?” She lobbed the ball, and it flew in an arc to the other end of the pitch. “Then I’ve got time to do me eyebrows again, right?”

“Right,” said Ginny in bemusement. She Summoned the Quaffle once more, and tried again. Ruby only managed to catch or deflect half of the shots, but that was better than her rivals. 

“OK,” Ginny said. “You want on the team? It’s a team game,” she felt compelled to add.

“OK,” said Ruby, equably.

It was a strange team. Any team with Ruby in it would be strange, Ginny told herself, but the oddness didn’t end there. Her Chasers all showed promise, but didn’t know how to work together, and Ginny’s coaching didn’t seem to help. Ruby, hanging in front of the hoops, seemed to intimidate all three, and their hoop-shooting was erratic at best. But maybe Ruby would scare the opposition as well, she told herself. Her two Beaters didn’t seem to need an opposing team, and could bring down their own Chasers with unerring accuracy. Even with Aidan’s gales of laughter – and Andrew’s endless apologies – she was constantly shouting at them. She was back as Seeker: Not her favourite position, but there was no-one on the team she could swap with. 

Still, it was Quidditch, of a kind, and it was a distraction from prefect duties and lessons.

Ginny had time now to concentrate on her academic work, although she was finding Defence Against the Dark Arts horribly indigestible. She missed Remus Lupin so much: He would always give you the background, and why you might need a spell. Its limitations. When not to use it. But Stonelake didn’t seem to think any of that was necessary. They were dealing exclusively with Concealment Charms at the moment, which were hideously impenetrable to Ginny, and eventually she lost her temper.

“Excuse me, Professor Stonelake… Professor Stonelake?”

Stonelake turned around from the board, which was covered in runes and wand notation, and looked at her in puzzled enquiry. The others in the class stared at her in amazement too. There was something a little daunting about Professor Stonelake, and lessons were often deathly silent apart from his voice.

“Yes?”

Her face felt hot; Was she going red?

“This Concealment Charm…” she started, then plunged on. “When would I _use_ it?” she asked, peevishly. “Why not just use the ones you’ve already taught us?”

He looked at her as if this was a trick question. He turned back to look at the board. “This is a particularly useful spell,” he said thoughtfully, “If you need to hide in a peat bog.”

“In a _peat bog_?”

“Yes.”

“Why aren’t we learning spells to hide in… hide in crowds of people?” she asked indignantly. “Or forests?”

More bafflement from Stonelake. “We’ve already covered those,” he said.

“When?”

“In last week’s lessons,” he said, obviously answering a silly question.

“But you never said…”

“This class has already missed a quarter of the year’s lessons. You need to catch up. You’re final year students. It’s up to each of you to research the background of this work.”

“In our spare time,” she said crossly, but he merely frowned at her and returned to his lecture. 

And he was giving them huge amounts of homework too.

Madam Hooch came to see her.

“What’s this about indoor Quidditch I’m hearing?” she demanded, her hawk eyes boring into Ginny’s.

“We’re practising in the Room of Requirements,” explained Ginny.

“Oh,” said Madam Hooch, in disappointment. “I was hoping we could hold a match or two.”

“Well, I suppose you can,” said Ginny, uncertainly. The idea hadn’t occurred to her.

“ _In a room_?”

“It’s plenty big enough,” said Ginny. “I think. Come and have a look…” She turned away, but Madam Hooch took hold of her arm. When Ginny turned back to look at her, the broom teacher circled with a forefinger, and gave her an enquiring look.

“Oh,” said Ginny, and twisted up to the seventh floor.

“Hmm,” said Madam Hooch. She waited patiently while Ginny paced up and down, and then stepped into the room when Ginny opened the door.

“Hmm,” she said again, looking around. “Right, first match, Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff, two weeks today. In here. You’ll need to liaise with the other Quidditch captains, so they can practise here, too. Well done, Miss Weasley. I’ll walk back, thank you.”

Ginny had other things to worry about as well. She was doing her best to write occasional letters home, although it was helpful to be able to use the excuse that Pablo couldn’t carry long missives. But Mrs Weasley was a keen correspondent, always sending long and complicated letters for Ginny to decipher. These were largely about the woes of Mrs Weasley’s acquaintances, ones Ginny didn’t even know, but, despite this, she was spared few details of their private and medical life. But the latest letter was particularly disturbing.

“…You’ve probably heard that Madam Marsh has been admitted to St Mungo’s,” the letter read. “The healers are saying they’ve never seen a bladder like it, and poor Madam Marsh is really uncomfortable, poor thing. Bladder measles are a curse, she says. The hospital is trying to say it’s down to her diet, but she insists Gurdyroot never hurt anybody…”

Ginny had tried some, once, at Luna’s insistence, but had avoided them ever since.

“… She’s unlikely to be out before Christmas – bladders need a lot of care, they’re saying. So why don’t you ask Angharad here again for the holidays? I know you two get on so well, she was no trouble last time, and it would be a load off her grandmother’s mind…”

Ginny read this with horror. Angharad was probably the nearest thing she had to a best friend now, but what would happen if she found out she’d been used to hide Draco Malfoy? Ginny decided silence was the best solution here – Her mother was famous for wading into difficult situations, but she would often be found in a different dragon’s path only days later. 

But then Angharad approached her at breakfast a few days later with a letter in her hand and a puzzled expression.

“I’ve had a letter from your mother,” said Angharad, in bafflement. 

“Really?” Ginny asked, in total surprise, but only a second later did she realise she was in deep, odorous, trouble.

“She’s inviting me to your house for Christmas,” said Angharad, her forehead creased. 

“Really?” said Ginny again, feeling stupid. “That’s… I… I was hoping she would. Can you make it? There’ll be lots of us there. Should be fun!” Her own bonhomie sounded dreadfully false to her, and she was cringing already.

Angharad continued to frown. “She seems to think I spent the summer holidays with you,” she said. This was the downside of Angharad, Ginny realised. Once she’d found a bone, she didn’t let go. “Is she confusing me with someone else?” she asked. 

“Probably! Yes, probably!”

“…And she said I wouldn’t have to share your room this time.”

“Oh, well!” said Ginny, manically cheerful. “She does mix up people… But never mind, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do…”

“I was wondering,” said Angharad, at the same deliberate pace, “Would it be OK with you if I did come and stay?”

Ginny’s heart was a large, heavy stone, dropping rapidly and catastrophically through her insides.

“It’s just that Grammar’s ill at the moment, and I haven’t really got anywhere else to go,” continued Angharad. She smiled briefly, but even in her state of panic Ginny could see the pain in her friend’s eyes.

“Of course!” Ginny managed. “That would be great. Really great…”

Angharad looked at her in mystification. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Would you prefer me not to come?” 

“No! Of course not!” said Ginny, airily. “Really. It’ll be fine. Looking forward to it, just… Look, can I have a word…?” She jumped up and tried to take Angharad’s arm.

Angharad stepped back, blinking, and pulled her arm free. “No, it’s OK,” she said. “I understand. Honestly, I do.”

“ _Listen_!” said Ginny. “Just… Let’s go outside,” she suggested. “Get some fresh air…”

Angharad looked at her in amazement. “Fresh air…?”

Ginny turned. Beyond the Entrance Hall doors was a deluge. She could barely see fifty yards through the wind-driven rain. “OK,” she said, dragging at Angharad’s arm. “My room…”

Only when she’d Apparated into her own room did she remember that Angharad hated Apparating.

“What’s _wrong_ with you!” Angharad was saying, crossly, rubbing her arm. “I’ve told you before… Have I splinched anything?” she asked worriedly, examining her arms and legs.

“Look,” said Ginny desperately. “I’m really sorry. I totally forgot… I need to… See, over the summer…”

“What?” Angharad looked totally confused, and still hurt.

“Well, I had to… well, um, hide somebody. And we had to… make sure no-one recognised him… _Them_ ,” she continued, wretchedly. “So we disguised… them. As… We disguised them… as you. Polyjuice Potion.” She didn’t dare look at Angharad then. Pablo had left decoration down Agnes’s portrait this time, and she pulled out her wand to clean off the mess, avoiding Agnes’s glare as she did so.

The silence was gruelling. “ _Him_?” said Angharad, eventually. 

“Uh, yeah…”

“And he stayed in _your room_?” Angharad said in a horrified whisper. She stepped around Ginny, and gawped at her with an amazed expression.

“Well… Yes. Look, I’m sorry… We found your hairbrush, see…”

“Where did he sleep?”

“On the floor!” said Ginny, hurriedly. 

Angharad’s eyes were round in amazement, and she was shaking her head in disbelief. “Yeah, right!” she said, scornfully. “So who _is_ the stud?”

“He… I… Look, we weren’t having an _affair_ ,” said Ginny, desperately. In her mind’s eye, she could see Draco’s stick figure, with his arm across her. “He was just hiding…”

“You’re blushing,” said Angharad. She was laughing now, amazed and entertained. “Was this _Harry Potter_?” she asked. “Wow…”

“No!” said Ginny.

“Oh, come _on_ …”

“Harry was staying with us anyway!”

“Does _he_ know about this?” Angharad, her eyes like saucers.

“No!”

“And you didn’t just… No, that makes no sense…. Let me get this straight… You hid some… _boyfriend_ … in your parents’ house, right under Harry’s nose? And he never found out?”

“No…” Ginny found herself admitting. 

Angharad stared at her with her mouth open. “I don’t believe this,” she said, but she obviously did. “Was it Dean Thomas? You used to go around with him…”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“ _Not_ Michael Corner! I could never understand what you saw in him…”

“No!”

Angharad’s eyes were searching the ceiling. “So who…? Not _Neville_? No, surely not… Although I s’pose he looked pretty hot with that sword…”

“Angharad, stop right there…”

“I’m going to guess,” said her friend. “If it’s the last thing I do. Who’d have thought it? Y’know, you look so _innocent_...”

“I _am_ innocent!”

“Unbelievable…”

“Look, please don’t tell anybody! I’ll be in such trouble if anyone finds out…”

“Am I going to get to meet him?” pursued Angharad, totally delighted now.

“No!”

“I’m going to keep guessing, you know,” said Angharad. “You’ll have to ‘fess up eventually…”

The Room of Requirements Quidditch spectator stand wasn’t really big enough for the house competition, so Ginny nervously asked the room if it could host a match instead. When she re-entered the room, she thought everything had gone wrong, because there was a tunnel in front of her. But when she plucked up the nerve to walk along it, she found the tunnel led between two huge spectator stands, onto a full-sized pitch. There were equally large stands facing her. The ceiling seemed to be sky now, and boundless. She got on her broom and explored: She seemed to be able to rise as far as she wanted into the air. Her imagination showed her a Hogwarts castle ballooning endlessly into the sky, but she shook her head to clear the ridiculous idea. 

The new Quidditch pitch also cured the echoing problem with the previous room, and it was easy to forget they weren’t actually outside. The spectactors crowded in and went to their stands, but were strangely quiet, without the cheering and singing that usually preceded any match. Madam Hooch blew her whistle in near-silence, and the teams kicked off from the ground, nervously. 

Ginny angled her broom upwards so she could see the entire play, and the Hufflepuff seeker nervously followed her. Ginny’s apprehension grew when she watched her infant team lose the Quaffle to Hufflepuff, and the opposition threaded their way through them, effortlessly.

There was the Snitch! It was barely moving, halfway down the pitch. Was it confused by the room it was in? Without thought she sped towards it, expecting it to dodge her, expecting a Bludger to appear and smash into her, expecting the other team to target her, but within seconds she grabbed the Golden Snitch, and the match was over.

“GRYFFINDOR WIN!” shouted Dominic, who was acting-commentator, into near silence. “One hundred and fifty to ten!” The cheers came then, and the normal kind of boos from Hufflepuff, and her team were rising to meet her, amazement in their faces.

“Did we win?” asked Andrew Kirke.

“But we didn’t do anything,” said Euan.

“Just luck,” said Ginny. “The Snitch was just sitting there, so I grabbed it!”

“Bit of an anti-climax,” confessed Cwenhild. “Is that it?”

“’Fraid so,” said Ginny, starting to feel guilty now. “But we did win…”

“I suppose,” said Euan.


	17. The Potion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

Professor Stonelake had moved onto Bewilderment Charms now, of which it appeared there were an appropriately bewildering number.

“You have to understand,” he said in his ponderous way, “We’re dealing with the human mind now. Something of huge complexity, with a sophisticated palette of beliefs. Without the correct spell, you will merely confuse, and not bewilder…”

“I’m confused AND bewildered,” muttered Emerald, next to her.

Ginny’s head was spinning by the end of the lesson, and when Stonelake asked her to remain afterwards, she assumed it was about her last homework, in which she felt she’d probably outstripped Emerald in both confusion and bewilderment. He waited for everyone else to leave, and closed the door with his usual painstaking care. It was still a surprise when he turned to her and said, “I understand you want to learn another language.”

Ginny was still in Bewilderment Charms, so didn’t understand him at first. “Language…? Oh, yes. French. I need to learn French.”

“Why?”

 _What do I say now?_ she wondered in panic.

“Well…” she said eventually, “My brother Bill is married to a French woman, and we spent the summer with her family… And I thought, I ought to speak French…”

“How do I put this tactfully?” he asked the ceiling in a ruminating way. He looked down at her, frowning. “You need to work on your lying…”

“Wh…” was all she managed.

“This request… came through some unusual channels,” said Stonelake. “Trustworthy ones, let me add, so there’s no… hurdle to cross there. But I’m interested, all the same.”

“Do I have to say?” she asked, worriedly.

“No.”

“I’d rather not,” she said.

He looked at her steadily, with no expression she could decipher.

“That’s good enough,” he said. But he continued to stare at her.

“How long does it take?” she asked.

“It depends,” he said, thoughtfully. “This is your first foreign language?”

“Yes.”

“Well…” he began. “French is a… convoluted language, in some ways… so it’s often advisable to learn another language first. Like Spanish, for example…”

“Do I have to do that? Can I just learn French?”

“Not sure,” mused Stonelake. “We’ll have to see … And then there are five, I think… no, six lessons after that. His eyes rose to the ceiling, and he brought his hand up in thought. He ticked each finger down in turn. “Grammar… Basic vocabulary… Phrasal French… Gestures… Culture… Extended vocabulary.”

“Phrasal?”

“So you sound like a Frenchman. Use the same phrases. And metaphors.”

“Do I really need all those?” she asked, worried now.

“If you want to be taken as truly French, yes.”

“Do I need that?”

“Yes,” said Stonelake. “I understand you do.”

What was she getting into here?

“Oh… So… when can I start?”

He sighed. “I’d prefer to start _after_ the holidays, speaking personally. But… You’re of age?”

What had _that_ to do with it? “Yes.” She’d spent her birthday in France, playing _Choc_ with Harry and the others.

He searched the ceiling once more with his eyes. “Shall we say… this Wednesday, after lessons end? You’ll have to miss dinner, I’m afraid.”

Ginny was troubled by the prospect. Was this going to be another case of totally failing to understand what Professor Stonelake was saying? Surely it was just a language she needed to learn? Hello. How are you. A flagon of pumpkin juice, please… Why did she need anything else?

On Wednesday, as soon as lessons were over, she hurried nervously down to Professor Stonelake’s classroom. He was on his own, deftly laying out several items on a table. He asked Ginny to sit in the chair opposite his. Casually, he flicked his wand at the door behind her, and she could hear the door lock click. 

She took an unsteady breath. It was hard to look at him, for some reason. He was very good looking, she thought dizzily. Not that old. Not really.

“Any jewellery?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Well, this…” She put her fingers on her Apparate bracelet.

“Take it off, please,” he instructed her. This felt strange – it had grown to be part of her, she felt, although it parted from her wrist willingly enough. She put it on the table next to her, but he reached out and pocketed it, to her alarm.

“I need to do some measurements, first,” he said. “Don’t worry, I won’t be looking at your thoughts, or memories. This is not Legilimency…” 

He brought up his wand, held it above Ginny’s forehead, and then seemed to stroke the air. Despite his assurances, the sensation was unpleasantly invasive – colours, lines, scents, sounds and ideas seemed to brush her mind, as his wand moved. “Keep silent, please,” he said. She could hear his other hand moving across the desk.

Faces flickered across her eyes – her parents; Angharad; Harry; Draco, to her horror. Then voices, familiar ones, and then she was seeing places, rooms – her bedroom at home…

Suddenly the feeling stopped.

“Good,” said her teacher. He unstoppered a large green bottle standing on the table. “Now, I need something from you… This is like Polyjuice, understand? But in this case the potion must be conditioned before it is given _back_ to you, does that make sense? A drop of blood is best…”

He touched his wand to the back of Ginny’s hand, and Ginny started at the sting she felt. There was a tiny drop of red on the end of the wand now, which Stonelake dropped into the potion. It changed from green to clear. “Now drink,” he commanded.

“All of it?” she asked.

“Please don’t talk,” he said briefly. 

Ginny obeyed before she had chance to regret her decision. The potion tasted unpleasantly chemical, and it took a long time to drink the entire flask. 

“Good,” said Professor Stonelake. “Now, the potion changes you, the way you process language. It’s not harmful. But… well, room… is made in your head for you to learn a second language. This potion is for any language, although if you wish to learn Asian languages, a slightly different potion is preferred, do you understand?”

“Mmh,” said Ginny, terrified.

“Now, you will need to remain here. In this room.”

“What? Stay here?”

“No talking. You’ll need to ignore feelings of hunger,” he said. “Is that clear? In fact, ignore any… emotions you feel. They’re valid emotions, don’t worry. But it’s advisable not to pay them heed, just for this evening. Think of them as… How a French person would feel. But they may seem overpowering… And you need to stay awake.”

She wasn’t meant to talk, but she had so many questions.

He stood. “I will leave you now, and return for the next stage.”

“Mmh?” she asked, worriedly.

“What should you do? Well… Make yourself comfortable,” he said, uncertainly. “There are books, here…”

It was one of the strangest sensations of her life. She stood up, giddily, supremely conscious of the way she was standing, her robe, Professor Stonelake a few yards away, the light coming through the window. But with each sensation, there was an emotion, a yearning. She wanted to dance. She wanted to sing. Her robe felt heavy and constricting, and she wanted to remove it. She needed to step over and _touch_ Professor Stonelake. Professor Erasmus Stonelake… Would he mind if she called him Erasmus? The light from the window urged her to rush over and breathe in the fresh air…

His expression was strange as he backed away from her, towards the door. Then he slipped through the door, and she heard the lock click.

He’d left her here! And there were so many people out there she wanted to be with! She seemed to float over to the door, but it was truly locked, and wouldn’t open, even under _Alohamora_. She tried to Apparate, but to her amazement that didn’t work either. He’d taken her bracelet… She wanted to beat on the door, but that felt… unkind… to such a handsome door. Look how well-proportioned it was! How perfectly it fulfilled its function!

And she had never realised before what such a beautiful room this was. The geometric perfection of the stonework, the exquisite proportions of the windows! The flawless stone ribs of the ceiling! The marvellous way the light etched the shape of the mullioned windows onto the walls and floor. The dizzying perfection of the floorboards. She kicked off her shoes so she could savour the warmth of the wood.

The outlook from the window was truly wonderful. The rugged mist-wrapped mountains dropping into the steel-grey lake, while urging the eye to more distant peaks. The heavy clouds above, huge, turbulent and proud. The trees dappling the hillsides, adorning them so magnificently. She wanted to touch every leaf.

She explored the room, restlessly. There was a single picture on the wall – a charcoal study of a Hippogriff, in exquisite detail. But she couldn’t feel the same about Hippogriffs, since she’d been attacked by one. 

There were shelves and shelves of books. Books about Shield charms, Concealment charms, and hexes, and Stunning. Legilimency and Occlumency. She took down a slim book entitled Secrets of Stunning, but any secrets it held, it kept. 

Her mind was like the clouds outside now, a churning greyness, but she was filled with a formless need. A need for what? What was happening to her? She put the book back where it belonged – just _there_ \- and kept looking. She recognised some of her schoolbooks: Here was a complete set of Goshawk’s Standard Book of Spells, although hers were battered and she didn’t have book two, and book seven was missing as well, of course. These were immaculate and matching, also unlike hers. Advances in Wand Lore, said another. Something made her pull it from the shelf and flick through it. Endless equations. A chapter called Individuality caught her eye, but the words belied the catchy title:

“… _on the surface of the wood and stimulated by the core. The theoretical basis of wood knot geometry has recently been refreshed and rethought [14], and this has led to new insights into the effects of knot umbra on wand responsiveness…”_

She flipped to another page.

_“Gondicott’s work on categorising wand users, and her equations for predicting compatibility and wand core material, based on knot geometry, are well-known. But although these equations give a reasonable prediction for well-defined personality types, they are of lesser utility in many population groups [18]. We therefore propose a revised set of equations…”_

Ginny really didn’t know why she didn’t put the book down. Was she really that bored? And she really didn’t understand any of the equations. Well, OK, this one she could understand, about surface flux, and now she looked more closely at the one below it, describing overall wand potency as a function of wand flexibility, became clearer as she examined it. But that would mean…

She slammed the book shut and put it back, blinking the equations from her eyes. Why did she care about making wands? She ran her fingers along the other books, unsettled now. Here was a taller, thinner book. Very different to the others: The Weird Sisters Song Book. She pulled it out and flipped through the pages. Was this Professor Stonelake’s? Did Erasmus like their songs as much as she did? Here was _Hi Guy, Bye Guy_ , one of her favourites. She found she was humming it quietly. She couldn’t read music, but the little blobs seemed to follow the tune - Up and down, the faster notes with little tails, the slower notes with holes, the vertical lines that gave the beat. So simple, really. She flipped to another page: _He’s No Wizard_ , one of their early songs, one she didn’t know, but she was singing it now, and trying to sing the chords as well. She could hear it all in her head, and that meant she had to dance to it as well. She turned the page. Another song! And another!

She’d finished the book now, and she had to get out. The feeling was very clear now. She returned to the door, but it was firmly shut and strongly-made. The window… The window was locked shut. Could she throw a chair through the window? The mullions wouldn’t let her, would they? 

She was back in front of the bookshelf. Every title seemed to spring out at her, and she could see – feel and taste, almost – the way that Erasmus had arranged his books. How sensible. How clever. Inspired. Just by looking at the books, she could tell, intuitively, which book would focus on doors, on locking them, on destroying them. Here, _this_ book, Geometric Spells and Charms. Of course! The structure of the book itself was obvious, too, and here – here! – was the spell he must have used to seal the door. So to remove the seal…

Her wand was in her hand, the unusual wand flick suddenly obvious. “ _Fuga patitur_!”

The door clicked open. Of course. 

The corridor was… so beautiful. The curving stonework. The leaded windows. Why weren’t all windows leaded, like this? The _sheen_ on the silvered glass!

She needed to go upstairs. She had to reach her room. Gryffindor Tower was the most marvellous place, and she had to be there.

The staircase! How pleasing to the eye! The soaring curve! The gleam of the marble! Someone was coming down the stairs as she ascended. It was Isobel Carpenter! What a beautiful name! She’d never really spoken to her. What a terrible waste! She wanted to reach out and touch her, but Isobel was tripping lightly down the stairs – such poise, she barely touched the steps! – so she would have to find Isobel later.

Another corridor! How many did Hogwarts have? What an incredible place! She wanted to count all its corridors! This corridor was smaller than the one below, perfect in a different way. Here was _Arjun_! What luck that he was here! Such a wonderful person, a great prefect, and a loyal friend. No! More than that, a close friend! He was saying something, something clever, something funny, of course she wanted to wrap her arms around him – like that – and kiss him – like that… She laughed in his face at his surprise. Surely he must know how much she liked him, how she admired him. Loved him. But he was pulling away, laughing as much as she. Such wisdom. He knew he had something so important to do. Yes, he was so important to this school. Even though she didn’t want to part from him, she knew she had to, that he had responsibilities, duties, friends.

A marvellous wall-hanging, an amazing work of art, that felt so wonderful under her fingers. The colours! The capering horsemen, full of life, of significance and meaning she understood now! Beyond, more beautiful stairs, a hidden masterpiece, leading her up once more. 

Here was the Fat Lady’s portrait, gleaming with perfection, an Old Master. How clever an artist! How ingenious the person who had hung this painting, just here, exactly the right portrait, the perfect subject.

She _had_ to speak now. “Chosen One…” Yes! _Yes_! She’d _chosen_ him! _Everyone_ had chosen Harry Potter, the boy who lived, the boy who died and came back! Who had talked to her, so recently, with such wisdom. If only he was here. There were things she needed to say, and do.

There was no-one in the common room - a momentary disappointment - but then she knew that was right. The common room should be perfectly empty. Nothing – nothing! – got in her way as she crossed to the girls’ staircase – _her_ staircase, that she loved – and stepped slowly, ecstatically, upwards, following that perfect curved wall, until, just in the right place, was her own wonderful room. 

What an amazingly, cunningly crafted door handle. And her lovely room. Here was Pablo, the best bird in the entire world. He should be free! Yes! He was flying now, across the sky. How wonderful it must feel, to fly, with the light air in his wings, the breeze stroking his feathers. She had to feel the air, too. Her robe… That was better! Her robe should hang on its hook, just here. What had happened to her shoes? Now the rest of her clothes. Yes, that was perfect! Reaching her hands out, feeling the caressing air… She was singing now, _He’s No Wizard_ , dancing around her room, every step exactly where it should be, every move of her hands, of her body, of her steps, heartbreakingly beautiful, _she_ was beautiful, too. The blaze of her red hair. _Everyone_ should have red hair, and near-white skin like hers. There was a mirror above her wonderful sink, exactly where it should be, and she could see herself. She could drink in her own appearance. How her eyes, of that wonderful soft brown like her mother’s, perfectly set, followed her as she tilted or turned her head. How the muscles on her chest and arms moved so cleverly as she raised her hands. The pale softness of her skin. Her mouth, smiling so perfectly, bringing joy, the joy inside her now, filling her, as she laughed. The sound of her laugh was the best thing she’d ever heard, and her voice: “I’m ready now!” she called out, and her vision was filled with stars, and she was singing again. Another Weird Sisters song from the book, one she hadn’t known either until today. Everybody should hear it! Everybody!

Here was Professor McGonagall! Professor Minerva McGonagall! The very best Head of House there could ever be. Why did she look so surprised? Was _Let Me Closer_ a new song to her too? And what an elegant Patronus she created! It wasn’t staying. No, it had something very important to do. Minerva was taking the robe, _her_ robe, Ginevra Bathilda Weasley’s robe. Did she like it? Did she want it? Ginny wanted to _give_ the robe to Minerva, but Professor McGonagall was putting it on her shoulders instead, using her wand to fasten it. What a pity Professor Erasmus Stonelake only arrived then.

Erasmus had a different wand now, a longer strangely-twisted one, and the spell he was casting was equally strange, and suddenly there were words all around her, that she could touch and hear and see, unknown words that formed strange patterns. But the patterns were good, and right, and inevitable, and each word had a place in the pattern. Every word had its own pattern arranged about it, and they aligned, so the patterns meshed together, so the tiny differences in each pattern became a pattern in themselves. And sound wrapped around the words, and her mouth was changing, welcoming what she heard, her whole body embracing the new sounds.

Old, old, words from Professor Minerva McGonagall now: “No. Ye’ll have to keep going. The next spell as well! Blithering idiot! _Far_ too much potion! Look at the _size_ of her! It’s not only about _age_ , Erasmus!” Why wasn’t Minerva speaking the new words?

“ _Erasmus_ ,” sang Ginny, her arms held high as she danced. New words were bubbling up in her throat! Such a different flavour to the old words! Professor Stonelake was glowing now, his face red, his eyes moving everywhere. How could Professor McGonagall be angry? She had to tell Professor Stonelake her feelings, about him, about Harry, about Angharad! How could she keep them to herself? She was using the new words, she realised, and they were so _right_. They fitted her mood to perfection. But there was something _missing_. She knew, somehow! Knew that dearest kindest Erasmus could help her! Her eyes were on his, her hands were on him, telling him what she wanted! Here was the twisted wand once more, telling her what she needed!

And it still wasn’t enough! She wanted more! She wanted to know _why_! Her eyes were growing dark now, but still the new words surrounded her, bright, like fireworks! She wanted to reach out to them, and it was an effort now, a huge effort, an unsustainable effort, but she had to have them, even though they were so difficult, and now she was falling, falling hard, and fast, and the lights in her eyes were dimmer now, their colour fading, shrinking, leaving her. Everything was leaving her.

She awoke in a strangely old-fashioned room. Bleak stone walls. Outmoded tall windows. Unfashionably painted walls. But a familiar room all the same. Her room, she realised. What a fusty kind of room it was. There was her robe, on its hook. Black, and dull. Such a strange colour to choose.

Someone had moved the tediously plain upright chair from her desk to next to her bed, and Professor McGonagall was slumped in it, asleep. How old she looked. Her cheeks sunken, her skin wrinkled. Her eyelids drooped, her mouth was pulled into bitter folds, her too-severely-tied hair a dull grey. Her hands, hanging off the arms of the chair, almost colourless apart from the purpled, zig-zagging veins. Her neck muscles will hurt when she awakes, with her head at that angle.

Ginny pushed back the sheets and climbed out of bed. Was… Was this someone’s idea of a joke? She was wearing a ridiculously old-fashioned nightdress! Surely she had something better? And her hair, she saw in horror in the mirror. Like a child’s! Her features were acceptable, she decided. But not the clothes… The chest of drawers was hideous, too. She wrenched open each drawer in turn – they were stupidly stiff - and every one revealed clothes that, yes, were familiar, but so _outmoded_.

“Looks like I need to start again,” she said in frustration. “Entirely!”

She heard Professor McGonagall stir behind her.

“And I need to find a hair stylist,” Ginny said to her. 

“In English, Ginny,” said McGonagall, her voice scratchy and dry. 

Ginny swung around. “Was I speaking French? Seriously?”

“Can’t understand you,” said McGonagall, tersely. “Speak English!”

It was an effort, then, to find the old words, the ones that didn’t work as well.

“Is that better?” Ginny asked cautiously.

McGonagall nodded, tiredly.

“What happened?” Ginny asked. Was that English? “What happened?” she asked again, to make sure.

“Professor Stonelake had to give you the entire course in one night,” said McGonagall. “You had a reaction.”

Ginny snorted. “You mean he gave me an overdose! I was there! I remember!” Her mind was falling into place now, and she was Ginny once more. At least, in places.

“English!” said McGonagall, yawning as she stood. “Now, I have a school to run. Do you have a class now?”

More settling of her thoughts. Her hideous watch was next to her bed. And her Spinny bracelet, she was relieved to see. “Potions,” she said. “I need to hurry…”

It was a strange day for Ginny. Everything seemed boringly normal, and yet so different. The difference, when she thought about it, was her, and her perception of her surroundings. She realised that nothing around her had changed, but everything she looked at seemed wrong. Inelegant. Balky, too sit up and beg. Professor Slughorn, in particular, seemed ludicrously fossilised, his words archaic, his heavily gallant flirting with her and the other young witches laughably inappropriate. But she found it safest to be silent, because it was still difficult to make herself speak the correct language, as if French was her mother tongue now, so she let his words go past without remark. 

Slughorn didn’t seem to notice anything different about her, but her fellow pupils seemed to look at her in worried surprise. She tried asking them what was wrong, once or twice, but it wasn’t possible to tell from their worried expressions whether her words were coming out in English or French. Silence seemed the best course.

When I can be sure of my words, she told herself, I must talk to Prudence about her hair.

Things settled down after a few days. She learned the trick of fixing her language once more to be English, at least in public. And she could dress in the morning, and eat the stodgy and samey food, and observe the poorly-dressed people around her, with nothing more than a quick sigh.

Making friends again was harder, particularly the other girls, as if she was a stranger once more. Somehow it was easier to befriend Emerald, for example, who had never been a friend in the past, than Angharad, who continued to look at her in amazement whenever she said anything, however commonplace. Making friends with the boys, though, was all too easy, and she kept having to fend them off, politely, when they took any remark she made as a kind of flirtation. Strangely it was easiest with Arjun, the boy she had actually kissed in her drugged confusion, because he continued to treat her with casual cheerfulness. Dominic, for example, seemed to have developed an exasperating smirk whenever he was in her presence, and Andrew Kirke, always too close to her now, unable to meet her eye or make sensible remarks, was a boring nuisance, to be avoided at all costs. 

She itched to be able to visit Hogsmeade, and visit a clothes shop, and track down a hair stylist, but with limited funds perhaps it was better that the village was still out of bounds. 

Everyone thought the rules about visiting Hogsmeade would be relaxed as the term neared its end – they were expecting to be able to do their Christmas shopping there before they left for home – but then rumours reached them of another Dementor attack.

“Did you hear about the Goblins?” Polly asked her in hushed tones at breakfast one morning. “Attacked by Dementors! Loads of them! It’s awful!”

“No Patronuses for Goblins,” said Warin Harcourt. He was seated beyond Polly, immersed in The Daily Prophet. “It’s saying Gringotts can’t even open now, they’ve lost so many staff.”

“That’s dreadful!” said Polly. “Poor Goblins!”

“I don’t think they’re all dead,” said Harcourt, looking up. “Soulless, I mean. They’re just in hiding. But that probably means a metals shortage...”

“Surely you can do better than him,” Ginny found herself saying in Polly’s ear. 

Polly turned her head and looked at her in surprise. “He’s pretty clever, though,” she whispered back. Then, even more quietly: “And his parents are really rich! Anyway, who told you?”

Ginny had heard nothing from, or about, Draco Malfoy since the beginning of term. He seemed to have vanished. She was tempted sometimes to send him an owl, but suspected that would be intercepted, and then she’d be in more trouble than she needed. Her single nervous attempt to send him a Patronus had failed too, and she hadn’t felt brave enough to try again. What had happened to him? She found herself wishing that somehow she could exchange the real Angharad Marsh for the one she’d known over the summer, but couldn’t come up with any way of achieving that. Christmas was alarmingly close now, and despite her best efforts there was still a stiffness between Angharad and her, which didn’t bode well for spending two weeks in her close company.


	18. The Traitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

According to Hermione, because Muggle parents couldn’t rely on magic to spirit Christmas presents into their children’s rooms on Christmas Eve, they had to resort to waiting until the recipients had finally fallen asleep before delivering them.

“Only some of them, of course,” Hermione had added. “The big presents they hand over directly during the day.”

Which both seemed very strange ideas to Ginny. What if the kids wouldn’t sleep at all? And wasn’t opening presents something you did in private, in case you didn’t like something, so you had time to pretend you did afterwards?

And it was certainly a relief, she decided as she awoke, to think that her parents hadn’t come into her room last night, when they were asleep. Usually, Ginny slept like a dead person, according to her dorm: flat on her back with her hands by her sides. But to her surprise she was lying on her side when she awoke, her head pillowed on Angharad’s bare shoulder. 

She lifted her head, and could see Angharad looking at her, a whimsical smile on her face.

“Merry Christmas,” said Angharad.

“Happy Christmas,” Ginny echoed, embarrassed now. She drew back. Neither of them seemed to have any clothes on. “Do you, uh, prefer girls, then?”

Another playful smile from Angharad. “Can’t you tell?”

“I thought… I thought with all your questions about… about the one who looked like you… that you were boy-mad, actually…”

“Can’t I be Ginny-mad, too?” asked Angharad. “And do I get a Christmas kiss?”

Ginny couldn’t refuse that, but pulled back once more afterwards and climbed out of bed. Ideally, she would have been wearing something at this point, but made herself go through with it. Then she dug out the dress she was planning to wear and pulled it over her head. She was reaching for the buttons behind her when she heard Angharad slip out of bed, and their fingers met. She brought her hands forward rapidly and cleared her throat. 

Angharad mimicked her throat-clearing as she fastened the dress buttons. “We’ve just spent the night together,” she said. “And this is embarrassing?”

“You haven’t got any clothes on,” muttered Ginny.

“Prude,” said Angharad.

“I’m not a prude!”

“Hypocrite, then,” suggested Angharad.

“Not that either,” said Ginny, annoyed.

“You spent all those nights of passion with your secret lover,” pointed out Angharad, “and you’re embarrassed because I’m naked?”

Ginny turned around angrily, but Angharad _was_ nude, and she found herself looking elsewhere as she answered. “I _told_ you! There wasn’t any passion! I was just helping him hide!”

“Sure,” said Angharad, delighted. She put her arms around Ginny and hugged her, and Ginny froze. “It’s OK,” said Angharad, releasing her, her face set now. “You prefer men. That’s OK…”

“I…” said Ginny, her face hot.

“Although you seemed to like me, last night. Look, piece of advice. Free advice. Try forgetting about English Ginny sometimes. Be French Ginny again, like last night. And I’ll be Welsh Angharad, and we’ll just have some fun.”

“I can’t…”

Angharad’s face froze. “It wasn’t about me last night, was it?” she pursued. Was she angry now? “It was about _him_ , wasn’t it?”

“No…”

“Fool me if you like, Ginny,” said Angharad, in annoyance. “But don’t kid yourself! It’s _him_ you care about, yeah?”

“I was just…!”

“Looking after him,” completed Angharad, coolly. “In bed. In this bed, for weeks.”

“It wasn’t like that!”

“No? Well, perhaps it should have been. Then we wouldn’t be embarrassing ourselves. I wouldn’t be standing her, starkers, trying to persuade you to see sense! Do you like my body?”

“I think so,” said Ginny despairingly.

“Then you need to decide who you prefer inside it,” said Angharad, reaching her hands around Ginny to her dress buttons.

“No!” Ginny pushed herself free, embarrassed.

“Shall I come downstairs like this, then?” suggested Angharad, making for the door.

“Don’t you dare…!” Ginny reached for Angharad in panic, catching hold of her naked shoulder. Angharad twisted in her grip and kissed her once more. 

Angharad stopped the kiss this time. “Wait up,” she said, apparently calm now. “Let me put some clothes on…”

They were about to go downstairs when Ginny realised they hadn’t opened their other presents. Both of them had jumpers from Mrs Weasley – Angharad’s sported a red dragon, which seemed to touch Angharad – and Harry had given Ginny a necklace.

“That’s lovely,” was Angharad’s comment, but it felt like a chain to Ginny when she put it on over her new jumper, with its tiny owl. No present from Draco, of course.

Ron gave them an annoyed frown when they came downstairs, which immediately made Ginny feel embarrassed and aggressive, but he didn’t say anything. Nor did Hermione, although the slight red flush high on her cheekbones made Ginny suspect she’d just been talking about them. Couldn’t she just have a friend without it being commented on?

Nobody seemed to know what to say until the rest of the party turned up: Percy, along with a new girlfriend who looked like his old flame Penelope Clearwater, but wasn’t; Charlie, having to do everything left-handed because of a dragon bite that wouldn’t heal; and Angelina and George, rather later than everyone else, looking a little constrained, although they both seemed to cheer up over dinner.

But no Harry. “Gone to visit that big family of his,” said Ginny waspishly. Hermione was about to say something, but Ron nudged her into silence.

Charlie tried to be the life and soul of the party, but obviously his arm was still hurting, and in his silences Mr and Mrs Weasley pursued their individual cross-examinations of their new guests, to the embarrassment of each interrogation subject and their partner.

“So, Penelope…” began Mr Weasley at one point.

“Daphne,” put in Percy.

“Daphne,” agreed his father. “Are you in the same department as Percy?”

Daphne looked worried. “No, Dad,” said Percy. “We met outside work. Daphne is a translator.”

“Fascinating!” said Mr Weasley. “Books?”

“Excuse me?” said Daphne. “Oh… No, meetings, mostly. Business. Ministry people, sometimes.”

“So what languages do you translate?” asked Hermione.

“Well, Goblin,” said Daphne, uncertainly. “Mermish, Italian, Japanese.”

“Amazing!” said Mr Weasley. “And you’re only little!”

Ginny cringed. “Do…?” she started, without a full sentence in mind, and had to cast around for something to say. “Did that mean two different potions?” she asked, lamely.

“Potions?” asked Daphne, in confusion. “I was learning languages.”

“Oh,” said Ginny. She could see Angharad turning to stare at her. “That must have been hard work,” she said.

“Several years,” said Daphne, stiffly. “I think it’s a great shame they don’t teach languages at school. Instead of Ancient Runes, and things like that.”

“Ancient Runes is a very important subject!” said Hermione, annoyed. “I’ve learnt lots…”

“Who would like some more pudding?” asked Mrs Weasley, loudly. 

“Languages are the Galleons of the world…” began Daphne, weightily.

Ginny stood up abruptly. “I think Angharad and I will go for a walk,” she said loudly.

“Not in this mist you won’t,” said Mrs Weasley, flatly.

“Mum! We won’t get lost…”

“And you won’t get devoured by Dementors, either,” snapped her mother. “Because you’re not going outside!”

“Fine!” said Ginny, crossly. “Angharad, looks like we’re stuck in my bedroom again!” She seized Angharad’s hand and pulled her out of the room.

“Well, I think it’s sweet,” said Mr Weasley, loudly, as they went upstairs. 

“ _Sweet_?” said Mrs Weasley, in annoyance. “I need to give that girl a good talking to. What Harry’s going to say…”

Ginny had to push her fingers in her ears, as she ran up the next two flights to her room. Angharad was behind her, but didn’t seem out of breath when she got there. “You’re so cute when you’re angry,” she said, and tried to kiss Ginny just outside the bedroom door.

Ginny pushed her away. “I’m not angry!” she snarled.

“Just like your mum…”

“I’m nothing like her!”

“Well, you’re nothing like your father,” Angharad pointed out, cheerfully. “Apart from the hair.” She put her hand up to stroke Ginny’s hair, but Ginny batted her hand away crossly. But it was a comfort all the same to have arms wrapped around her.

“I need to get out of here,” Ginny said into Angharad’s shoulder.

“Really? Where?”

“I don’t know…”

“I’d invite you to Wales,” said Angharad, “But Grammar’s still in hospital.”

“Don’t you need to go and see her?” asked Ginny, curiously. 

“Probably.”

“Don’t you get on?” Ginny asked then. Angharad had never opened up about her family.

“Put it this way,” said Angharad. “Your parents are a lot saner.”

“Never been to Wales,” said Ginny.

“No foreign travel?” asked Angharad, playfully.

“No,” replied Ginny, entirely missing the sarcasm. “Well, apart from France this year.”

“We can go if you like,” said Angharad. “Tell you what, take me to see Grammar in St Mungo’s, and then we can spin over to Wales after that.”

“Apparate? You hate Apparating…”

Angharad squeezed Ginny. “I’ll hold on tight,” she said.

“But Harry might turn up here,” Ginny found herself saying.

“He can wait,” said Angharad, firmly.

Mr and Mrs Weasley raised no objection to the plan, to Ginny’s surprise. It helped that Angharad asked on behalf of both of them. “And there are no Dementors around there,” she stressed. “Probably not enough people to attract them. We rarely even get any mist.”

“But if there _is_ ,” said Mrs Weasley, sternly. “You come right back here, understand?”

“Sure,” said Ginny, quickly taking Angharad’s arm and spinning before her mother could change her mind.

They Apparated right outside Purge & Dowse, finding the street virtually empty, and stepped through the window when the bald dummy beckoned to them. Angharad seemed to know where they were going, and steered Ginny past the reception area and up the stairs. 

“Can’t we use a lift?” asked Ginny, breathlessly. 

“You need to walk more,” said Angharad, “If you’re coming to Wales, that is.”

Madam Marsh sat in her hospital bed as if it was a throne. She was small and apple-cheeked, but her eyes were firm, her mouth uncompromising.

“Merry Christmas, Grammar!” said Angharad, and leaned over to kiss her.

“Who’s this?” asked Madam Marsh, staring at Ginny, barely acknowledging the embrace.

“Ginny Weasley, Grammar.”

“How do you do?” said Ginny.

“It is Christmas, you know!” said Madam Marsh, severely.

“Happy Christmas,” said Ginny, lamely, approaching the other side of the bed. Angharad didn’t sit down, so neither did she.

“In a hospital ward?” returned Madam Marsh. “I don’t think so. You ARE one of those pure-blood Weasleys, I trust.”

“Er, yes…”

“Are you feeling better, Grammar?” asked Angharad, airily ignoring the interrogation.

“I have already explained,” said Madam Marsh, flatly. “It is a very uncomfortable condition. And the Healers here are charlatans. Rank charlatans!” She didn’t bother to lower her voice.

“We can’t really stop,” said Angharad, to Ginny’s surprise. “We’re off to Wales.”

Madam Marsh’s eyes swivelled back towards Ginny. “The house is shut up,” she said. “And protected. You can’t stay there.”

“No, of course not,” said Angharad, soothingly. “We’ll just take a look from the outside, and make sure everything’s all right.”

“Hmm,” said Madam Marsh. “Waste of time. Haven’t you anything better to do?”

“It is Christmas, Grammar,” said Angharad, cheerfully. “And Ginny’s never been to Wales!”

“Hmm,” said Madam Marsh again. 

“We’ll be back soon,” said Angharad, turned away and walked towards the exit.

“Bye,” said Ginny in embarrassment, and followed her.

They Apparated straight into Abergavenny High Street, which on Christmas Day was no busier than the street outside Purge & Dowse. “This way,” said Angharad, steering her uphill.

Madam Marsh’s house was a terraced house remarkably like its neighbours, in a long and narrow street. 

“Well, it hasn’t burnt down,” said Angharad cheerfully. She resumed walking down the street.

“Aren’t we going inside?” asked Ginny, following her in confusion.

“No,” said Angharad. “Didn’t you hear Grammar threaten us?”

“Well…”

“Not worth the risk, anyway.”

“So where are we going?”

“My parents’ house,” said Angharad.

“Do you still live there, then?”

“No,” said Angharad.

They kept walking, crossing under a busy road through a wide tunnel, and then they were climbing, towards a large armchair-shaped mountain.

“So where’s your parents’ house?” asked Ginny, out of breath by now.

Angharad gestured to the mountain in front of them. “Up there.”

Ginny eyed the slope morosely. “Oh, good,” she said.

“Do you need a pull?” asked Angharad. She was wearing her large rucksack, the one she’d taken to The Burrow, but the weight didn’t seem to bother her.

“No,” said Ginny. “Thanks…”

They left the houses behind, and kept climbing. They entered a brick tunnel. “Canal,” said Angharad, gesturing upwards, but Ginny didn’t have breath to enquire.

The wooded slope was strewn with rocks, and grew steeper. Angharad made it look easy, and despite the chilled air Ginny felt over-warm. “How much… further?” she gasped.

“Not far,” said Angharad over her shoulder.

They came to a tiny brick edifice, nothing more than a fireplace and chimney, situated in a gap in the woods, where they paused, to Ginny’s relief.

“Here,” said Angharad.

“What?”

“My parents’ house,” said Angharad. “Our house.”

“ _Here_?” Ginny looked around, perplexed. There was no other building in sight, apart from the chimney. 

“Mmh,” said Angharad. “My room’s about here,” gesturing with one vertical hand. “I used to sit and look out at the trees. All the time. It was so beautiful. I suppose it still is, but…”

“I don’t understand,” said Ginny.

Angharad turned to look at her. There was a strange expression in her eyes. “Extension charm,” she explained. “When my father died, it collapsed back the way it was. And Mum was inside.”

“You mean… She’s still in there?”

“They both are,” said Angharad. “I’m pretty sure of that.”

“So who…?”

“Death Eaters,” said Angharad. “Dad never said what his job was. I mean, I know he wasn’t an Auror, or anything, but as soon as He Who Must Not Be Named came back, we all had to hide.”

“But… He wasn’t a Death Eater himself, was he?” Ginny asked fearfully. “Like Snape?”

“No,” said Angharad, definitely. “But they wanted him dead. Well, they got their wish.”

“Were you…? Did you…?”

Angharad nodded. “My parents were worried about Hogwarts by then, so they made me come home. I got no warning… I saw Dad die,” she said, abruptly. “When the Death Eaters got close to the house, he told me to run, but I was looking over my shoulder when I got to the trees, and could see him in the doorway. I couldn’t see Mum, but there was a bolt of green, and he was falling, and then the house was gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” whispered Ginny.

“The Death Eaters didn’t seem to care about me,” said Angharad. “They didn’t come after me. They just left.”

“Did you recognise any of them?”

“No.”

“But you know they were Death Eaters?”

Angharad was screwing her eyes up in pain. “Do we have to talk about this?” she asked, fretfully.

“Do you want to go now?” suggested Ginny.

“Come and see where I live, first,” said Angharad, and turned left, towards the trees. Ginny followed her, and they walked about two hundred yards. A small stone hut seemed to rise out of the ground. It was covered in lichen, and had saplings growing from the roof. But inside the doorway was a disturbed pile of blankets. An upended cardboard box stood next to the blankets, and held a glass jar containing dead flowers. 

“Hard to find flowers in December,” said Angharad. “There may be some uphill.”

“You stay _here_?”

“When I can,” said Angharad. “You can just see the house from here. It’s not much fun staying with Grammar.”

“But… On your own? What do you eat?”

“It’s safe enough,” said Angharad. “And there’s a big Muggle food shop down the road.”

“Do you have Muggle money?” Ginny asked, curiously.

“No. But they have big bins there. And there are mushrooms here, sometimes…” She pointed. “And berries. Lots of berries. Not now, of course. Come on.” She turned and walked uphill. The light was failing now, but Ginny followed anyway, unsure.

“But doesn’t your grandmother care where you are…? Where are we going?”

“Further up,” said Angharad. “It’s lovely up there, and you can see better.”

Ginny was soon out of breath again, but didn’t want to leave her friend, or argue, even if she could have done so. Eventually the trees grew sparser, and when they paused to look there were glimpses down into the darkening valley below. It was a beautiful place, even with the huge steel frames that seemed to walk across the valley, leashed together by wires. The hills were spangled with scattered lights.

“Electricity,” said Angharad. “My mum was a Muggle. She told me lots of stuff. And I used to tell her about magic, and things. Dad never did, y’see.”

“Wasn’t she a witch, too?” asked Ginny in surprise.

“No. Just a Muggle. Dad was pure-blood, but decided to marry her anyway. Grammar wasn’t best pleased.”

She continued marching up the hill, and Ginny struggled to keep up with her, while the sky turned from blue to palest grey to black. Angharad produced her wand to light their way. Presently they came to an area surrounded by an arc of stones, just below the summit of the mountain, and Angharad led her there. She shrugged her rucksack off her shoulders as Ginny reached her. “Grammar gave me some money for Christmas,” said Angharad. “I bought myself a sleeping bag.”

She unzipped the rucksack and a dark mass bulged out of it. Angharad pulled the bag out of the rucksack and laid it on the ground.

“You want to sleep _here_? Won’t it rain?”

“It won’t rain,” said Angharad. She was stripping off her boots, then her jumper and jeans, while Ginny looked on in horror. At least there was no-one up here to see. Angharad climbed into the sleeping bag. “Don’t just stand there,” she said as she settled herself. “You’ll freeze.”

“We could just go home,” said Ginny, tartly. “We’d be warm enough there.”

“No,” said Angharad, composedly. “I don’t fancy it, really. Come on…” She patted the sleeping bag. 

Ginny eyed it; It didn’t look very roomy for two. But she was getting cold already. As quickly as she could she stripped off her outer clothes, and stepped gingerly on tiptoe over the cold grass to the sleeping bag. Angharad wriggled sideways to let her climb into the bag. It was immediately warmer than outside, even though Angharad’s skin was cold at first. Angharad put her arm around her and kissed her lightly, but then pulled her head back to examine her friend in the failing light.

“So…” she said.

“So?” asked Ginny with a brief shiver. This seemed a crazy idea, but why not?

“I want you to explain something to me,” said Angharad. “How a professional translator had to slog for years to learn half a dozen foreign languages, and you got to learn it all in one night.”

Ginny had to smile at that. “Maybe I’m just clever,” she said. It was nice to snuggle up to Angharad. The night was still, and there were few clouds in the sky, lit by a partial moon. Quite romantic really, even though her nose was starting to freeze.

“Or maybe you’re so dense that lessons wouldn’t work? Did you think of that?”

“Nah,” said Ginny. 

“But why you?” asked Angharad. Her free hand was stroking Ginny’s stomach. 

“Ooh! Your hand’s cold… I honestly don’t know. I just said I wanted to learn French.”

“And they just said yes?”

“Well,” admitted Ginny, “Prof Stonelake said somebody asked on my behalf.”

Angharad mulled this. “Harry?” she asked eventually.

“No. I don’t think so. Maybe.”

“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought. Or maybe this secret admirer of yours, the one who likes to look like me?”

“No way! For a start, he’s on the wrong side…”

Angharad’s hand stopped moving. “Which side?” she asked. 

“Never mind,” Ginny said hurriedly.

“What do you mean, the wrong side?” Angharad’s voice was cold.

“Look, Angharad, I’m sorry…” Ginny trailed off.

“Sorry about what?” asked Angharad.

“I can’t tell you,” said Ginny, unhappily.

There was a silence. There was little free room in the sleeping bag, but she could feel Angharad draw back. “You already have,” said Angharad. “You’re hiding a Death Eater?”

“He’s a kid…!”

“So he _is_ a Death Eater. Ginny, they killed everyone we loved! And you’re _hiding_ him?”

“I don’t know where he is!”

“Oh, dear. Your little Death Eater’s gone missing. Get out of here…” Angharad was reaching across her for the zip, and there was cold air down Ginny’s side. She struggled out of the sleeping bag and scrambled to her feet. The cold settled on her skin.

“I killed his parents!” she shouted. “I didn’t mean to, but…”

“What are you talking about?”

“Somebody laid a trap for them, and I sprung the trap!”

“So what? I’d give you a medal. If you hadn’t slept with him afterwards!”

“I didn’t! I didn’t!” Ginny was shaking with cold and emotion now, but she had to explain, she had to convince Angharad. “He never killed anybody! He was just weak, and they bullied him!”

“So who was he?”

“I can’t…”

“ _Who was he_?”

“Stop shouting…”

“Just tell me!”

“Just… Draco Malfoy!”

“ _What_?” shouted Angharad. 

“You heard,” said Ginny, bitterly.

“Harry’s… _Your_ Harry’s biggest enemy, and you took him to _bed_ with you?” There was horror in her voice.

“ _Because I killed his parents_!”

Angharad flung herself back theatrically.

“And I didn’t sleep with him!” Ginny shouted. “How many times do I have to tell you? I just hid him… Angharad? Angharad?”

“You’re not going to like this,” said a familiar voice behind her. “But I Obliviated her.”

She spun around. Draco Malfoy – a very tattered, skeletal Draco – was standing there with his wand in his hand. He was shivering.

“ _What are you doing_?” she shouted at him in horror.

“I had to!” he said. “If she tells anyone…”

“But what are you doing _here_?”

“I followed you,” he said. Another shiver. “I had to. I was staying at the hunting lodge, what’s left of it.”

“What’s _left_ …? But we gave them the dagger! I thought the Giants would just leave…”

“ _I_ gave them the dagger,” Malfoy reminded her. “And perhaps if we’d been quicker they wouldn’t have wrecked the place quite so much.”

“Oh no! Draco, I’m really sorry…!”

“Anyway, the Ministry came for me. I got out the same way as last time. And I’d run out of Polyjuice. Ages ago. I’ve been hiding where I can. Just before Christmas, I went to the Burrow. I hoped you’d hide me.”

“No…” said Ginny, in fear.

“Then I saw _her_ through the window.” He nodded to Angharad’s unconscious form. “So I knew you couldn’t help. But with nowhere else to go, I stayed around. Then you left. I saw you Apparate with her. I tried to follow you, guessing you’d come here. I remember Hermione talking about her coming from Abergavenny. But you weren’t here. I thought that was it, then. I was so cold. I was sitting in a doorway when I heard you Apparate. I was sure you’d hear my teeth chattering. Please. I need something to eat, and get warm!”

“There’s nowhere here…”

“Your place?” pleaded Draco.

“You can’t…”

“Please! I’m begging you!”

She could see the image on the Ministry map once more, of the two of them in bed together. Of what Dawlish and the thin-faced man had said. There was rising hatred of herself now. But what choice had she?

“You’d best come home then,” she said, dully. “But what about Angharad? What will she remember?” she asked as she stood.

“Nothing about the last couple of days,” said Draco. “So she won’t remember coming home with you.”

“Or Christmas,” said Ginny, feeling even worse. She struggled to find a solution. “We’ll have to leave her here,” she said finally.

She felt very guilty then. She went over to Angharad and tucked her bare arms into the sleeping bag, and zipped it up. She put her hand on her shoulder, but she seemed to be sleeping normally.

“Take some hair,” said Draco behind her. His voice was quivering too. Mechanically she separated a strand of Angharad’s hair, tugged it free and clenched it in her fist. Angharad didn’t stir.

She stood and looked at her, trying to ignore her clamouring thoughts. “We’ve got to go…”

“Are you going to dress, first?” he asked.

She looked down at herself in horror. “No wonder I was shivering,” she said. “Wait…” 

She pulled her clothes back on, took his arm, and they were spinning, and they were in her room.

“Get into bed,” she said. “You’re freezing.”

But he was putting his arms around her, and she felt dizzy. He was so cold. His lips sought hers, and she was fighting him off. “I’ll get some Polyjuice,” she said. “Get into bed…”

“My clothes…” he started. They were filthy.

“Take them off,” she said. When she left the room, she could hear voices downstairs. Hopefully Hermione was one of them. She climbed another floor to Hermione’s and Angelina’s room, which was empty. She could see Hermione’s beaded bag tucked under her pillow, and Summoned the Polyjuice Potion from it, and then an empty bottle. You could always rely on Hermione, she told herself.

It was the work of seconds to transfer a small amount of Polyjuice into the bottle and add Angharad’s hair to it. It went its characteristic silver colour, and she hurried downstairs with it.

“Here,” she said, offering the bottle to Malfoy, who was in bed now. His eyes searched hers, but then he reached out for the bottle and drank. She turned away before he started to change. “I’ll get you some food,” she said. “Stay here…”

This time she went downstairs. Her parents were amazed to see her.

“Sorry,” she said. “Angharad fell in a stream, so I brought her back here. Can I get her some food?”

“Poor Angharad!” was the response from most of them.

“Oh no,” said George. “Food’s all gone…”

She barely had the energy to smile at this, and of course the kitchen table was still crammed with covered dishes. She heaped two platefuls – in truth she was starving too – made her excuses and carried them upstairs. Her mother followed her, catching her at her bedroom door, to her dismay, but she merely used her wand to reheat the food before tutting and returning downstairs. 

Draco – a wild- and windswept-looking Angharad now – was in bed now, but still shivering. She’d forgotten any knives and forks, but they both sat on the bed and burned their fingers as they ate. She let Draco finish her plate as well. She could easily have eaten the rest herself, but his great hunger was obvious.

“What have you been eating?” she asked. 

He shrugged. “For the past week? Almost nothing,” he said as he cleaned her plate with his fingers.

“We’ll have to stay in here for now,” she said, mechanically. “I’m too tired to make up all the details for my parents.”

His eyes softened. “You look tired. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’m grateful,” he added. “You have no idea.”

“It’s OK,” she said. “Stay there.” It was hard then to peel off her outer clothes, and then get into bed beside him. She should get some barrier pillows, she knew. “Get some sleep,” she said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

She felt giddy again as she lay down. And she’d left Angharad on that mountain top. But there was nothing she could do. Nothing. She had to stay with him. 

His hand moved and touched her bare skin. She wanted to tell him not to, but simply turned over away from him. 

This is treason, she told herself. But what choice have I?

To her surprise, it was daylight when she awoke. Draco was still asleep, and of course he was Draco once again. But it was too late now. Something made her turn over and put her arm across him, protectively, which was a mistake. Her fingers were tight on his bare arm then, and she was shaking with emotion.

Then she was shaking him.

“Draco,” she whispered urgently. “Draco, wake up!”

His eyes came open, and he looked at her in surprise, tensing as he did so, and around at the room. But then his free arm was coming around her, and he was kissing her.

She pulled herself back. “No,” she said. “No…” His arms were so strong, and it was almost impossible to break free. “No!” she said loudly. “Draco, listen! They’re coming for you!”

He didn’t seem to hear at first, intent on her as he was. But then he lifted his head and looked at her in puzzlement. “Who?” he asked.

“The Aurors!”

“ _What_?”

“They saw us… They can see us here… They’ve got a magic map, and it showed us here together. I went to the Ministry… I was trying to get a job…”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, loudly.

“ _Shh_! They said… they said I was a traitor. They took me and showed me the map, of the two of us in… in bed together… and then they told me to bring you back here, and they’d catch you. I said I didn’t know where you were… They said… They said they would let me work for the Aurors if I helped trap you.”

He was frozen now. “So have you told them? Have you contacted them?”

“No,” she said, miserably. “I don’t have to. They’ll see us on the map…”

“When will they be here?”

“I don’t know. Soon…”

He was silent. “You’ve got to go!” she told him, angrily. “You’ve got to leave now!”

“Why are you telling me?” he asked.

“I can’t…”

“Can’t what?”

“Just get dressed!” she cried. “There’s some Polyjuice left. Quickly!” She darted out of bed and handed him the bottle. It was barely a third full. Would there be enough? “You’ve got to get out of here!”

“No!” he said, firmly.

She was crying now. “You must!” she insisted. “Don’t let them catch you! They’ll put you in Azkaban!”

Suddenly there were noises downstairs. Strange, deep voices.

“Go!” she shouted.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said.

“I killed your parents!”

“ _You_ didn’t do that! That was somebody else!”

There were heavy, hurrying footsteps on the stairs.

“Get out of here!” she shouted. She reached out for her wand, next to the bed, and went to the door.

“What are you _thinking_?” he yelled at her. “If you do anything now, it won’t just be a job you lose! They’ll put you in Azkaban as well!” He strode across the room towards her.

There was a thump on the door. Draco dragged her wand out of her hand and flung it away.

“ _No_!” she cried.

The door burst open. Without a wand, she could do nothing but use her fists to try and stop them, but there were three of them, and she was powerless. They pushed her violently aside and heaved Malfoy off the bed, and then they were dragging him downstairs.

“I thought it was Angharad,” she said afterwards, to her parents, and the others there. “But he must have… I don’t know how, but he changed places with her. I didn’t know. But the Aurors…” She stopped then, and it was very hard to make herself speak. So very hard. “But the Aurors followed him here. When I woke up he was Malfoy again.”

“You were _so_ lucky!” said Angelina in horror. “He could have killed you!”

Ginny shook her head. She was in tears still, but nobody questioned that. “He was cold and hungry, he said. He just wanted somewhere warm.”

“And you’re sure Angharad is all right?” asked Mr Weasley.

“The Aurors found her, they said. That’s how they knew where he was.” Why was lying always easier than telling the truth? “They had to modify her memory,” she said. “So she wouldn’t remember what happened to her.”

Dawlish had been ghoulishly pleased and expansive. He hadn’t bothered to interrogate her, beyond making sure she didn’t tell anyone about the Department of Mysteries’ magic map.

“And we’ll see about a job for you,” he’d added. “As long as you behave,” he said. 

“I gave you Draco Malfoy!” she said angrily.

“But who _else_ do you know?” he asked triumphantly. “We’ll be watching!”

She couldn’t say anything further then. She’d let Draco go to Azkaban, as well as killing his parents. If she’d had her wand, she wasn’t sure what she would have done to Dawlish then. Or herself.


	19. The Traitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

According to Hermione, because Muggle parents couldn’t rely on magic to spirit Christmas presents into their children’s rooms on Christmas Eve, they had to resort to waiting until the recipients had finally fallen asleep before delivering them.

“Only some of them, of course,” Hermione had added. “The big presents they hand over directly during the day.”

Which both seemed very strange ideas to Ginny. What if the kids wouldn’t sleep at all? And wasn’t opening presents something you did in private, in case you didn’t like something, so you had time to pretend you did afterwards?

And it was certainly a relief, she decided as she awoke, to know that her parents hadn’t come into her room last night, when they were asleep. Usually, Ginny slept like a dead person, according to her dorm: flat on her back with her hands by her sides. But to her surprise she was lying on her side when she awoke, her head pillowed on Angharad’s bare shoulder. 

She lifted her head, and could see Angharad looking at her, a whimsical smile on her face.

“Merry Christmas,” said Angharad.

“Happy Christmas,” Ginny echoed, embarrassed now. She drew back. Neither of them seemed to have any clothes on. “Do you, uh, prefer girls, then?”

Another playful smile from Angharad. “Can’t you tell?”

“I thought… I thought with all your questions about… about the one who looked like you… that you were boy-mad, actually…”

“Can’t I be Ginny-mad, too?” asked Angharad. “And do I get a Christmas kiss?”

Ginny couldn’t refuse that, but pulled back once more afterwards and climbed out of bed. Ideally, she would have been wearing something at this point, but made herself go through with it. Then she dug out the dress she was planning to wear and pulled it over her head. She was reaching for the buttons behind her when she heard Angharad slip out of bed, and their fingers met. She brought her hands forward rapidly and cleared her throat. 

Angharad mimicked her throat-clearing as she fastened the dress buttons. “We’ve just spent the night together,” she said. “And this is embarrassing?”

“You haven’t got any clothes on,” muttered Ginny.

“Prude,” said Angharad.

“I’m not a prude!”

“Hypocrite, then,” suggested Angharad.

“Not that either,” said Ginny, annoyed.

“You spent all those nights of passion with your secret lover,” pointed out Angharad, “and you’re embarrassed because I’m naked?”

Ginny turned around angrily, but Angharad _was_ nude, and she found herself looking elsewhere as she answered. “I _told_ you! There wasn’t any passion! I was just helping him hide!”

“Sure,” said Angharad, delighted. She put her arms around Ginny and hugged her, and Ginny froze. “It’s OK,” said Angharad, releasing her, her face set now. “You prefer men. That’s OK…”

“I…” said Ginny, her face hot.

“Although you seemed to like me, last night. Look, piece of advice. Free advice. Try forgetting about English Ginny sometimes. Be French Ginny again, like last night. And I’ll be Welsh Angharad, and we’ll just have some fun.”

“I can’t…”

Angharad’s face froze. “It wasn’t about me last night, was it?” she pursued. Was she angry now? “It was about _him_ , wasn’t it?”

“No…”

“Fool me if you like, Ginny,” said Angharad, in annoyance. “But don’t kid yourself! It’s _him_ you care about, yeah?”

“I was just…!”

“Looking after him,” completed Angharad, coolly. “In bed. In this bed, for weeks.”

“It wasn’t like that!”

“No? Well, perhaps it should have been. Then we wouldn’t be embarrassing ourselves. I wouldn’t be standing her, starkers, trying to persuade you to see sense! Do you like my body?”

“I think so,” said Ginny despairingly.

“Then you need to decide who you prefer inside it,” said Angharad, reaching her hands around Ginny to her dress buttons.

“No!” Ginny pushed herself free, embarrassed.

“Shall I come downstairs like this, then?” suggested Angharad, making for the door.

“Don’t you dare…!” Ginny reached for Angharad in panic, catching hold of her naked shoulder. Angharad twisted in her grip and kissed her once more. 

Angharad stopped the kiss this time. “Wait up,” she said, apparently calm now. “Let me put some clothes on…”

They were about to go downstairs when Ginny realised they hadn’t opened their other presents. Both of them had jumpers from Mrs Weasley – Angharad’s sported a red dragon, which seemed to touch Angharad – and Harry had given Ginny a necklace.

“That’s lovely,” was Angharad’s comment, but it felt like a chain to Ginny when she put it on over her new jumper, with its tiny owl. No present from Draco, of course.

Ron gave them an annoyed frown when they came downstairs, which immediately made Ginny feel embarrassed and aggressive, but he didn’t say anything. Nor did Hermione, although the slight flush high on her cheekbones made Ginny suspect she’d just been talking about them. Couldn’t she just have a friend without it being commented on?

Nobody seemed to know what to say until the rest of the party turned up: Percy, along with a new girlfriend who looked like his old flame Penelope Clearwater, but wasn’t; Charlie, having to do everything left-handed because of a dragon bite that wouldn’t heal; and Angelina and George, rather later than everyone else, looking a little constrained, although they both seemed to cheer up over dinner.

But no Harry. “Gone to visit that big family of his,” said Ginny waspishly. Hermione was about to say something, but Ron nudged her into silence.

Charlie tried to be the life and soul of the party, but obviously his arm was still hurting, and in his silences Mr and Mrs Weasley pursued their individual cross-examinations of their new guests, to the embarrassment of each interrogation subject and their partner.

“So, Penelope…” began Mr Weasley at one point.

“Daphne,” put in Percy.

“Daphne,” agreed his father. “Are you in the same department as Percy?”

Daphne looked worried. “No, Dad,” said Percy. “We met outside work. Daphne is a translator.”

“Fascinating!” said Mr Weasley. “Books?”

“Excuse me?” said Daphne. “Oh… No, meetings, mostly. Business. Ministry people, sometimes.”

“So what languages do you translate?” asked Hermione.

“Well, Goblin,” said Daphne, uncertainly. “Mermish, Italian, Japanese.”

“Amazing!” said Mr Weasley. “And you’re only little!”

Ginny cringed. “Do…?” she started, without a full sentence in mind, and had to cast around for something to say. “Did that mean two different potions?” she asked, lamely.

“Potions?” asked Daphne, in confusion. “I was learning languages.”

“Oh,” said Ginny. She could see Angharad turning to stare at her. “That must have been hard work,” she said.

“Several years,” said Daphne, stiffly. “I think it’s a great shame they don’t teach languages at school. Instead of Ancient Runes, and things like that.”

“Ancient Runes is a very important subject!” said Hermione, annoyed. “I’ve learnt lots…”

“Who would like some more pudding?” asked Mrs Weasley, loudly. 

“Languages are the Galleons of the world…” began Daphne, weightily.

Ginny stood up abruptly. “I think Angharad and I will go for a walk,” she said loudly.

“Not in this mist you won’t,” said Mrs Weasley, flatly.

“Mum! We won’t get lost…”

“And you won’t get devoured by Dementors, either,” snapped her mother. “Because you’re not going outside!”

“Fine!” said Ginny, crossly. “Angharad, looks like we’re stuck in my bedroom again!” She seized Angharad’s hand and pulled her out of the room.

“Well, I think it’s sweet,” said Mr Weasley, loudly, as they went upstairs. 

“ _Sweet_?” said Mrs Weasley, in annoyance. “I need to give that girl a good talking to. What Harry’s going to say…”

Ginny had to push her fingers in her ears, as she ran up the next two flights to her room. Angharad was behind her, but didn’t seem out of breath when she got there. “You’re so cute when you’re angry,” she said, and tried to kiss Ginny just outside the bedroom door.

Ginny pushed her away. “I’m not angry!” she snarled.

“Just like your mum…”

“I’m nothing like her!”

“Well, you’re nothing like your father,” Angharad pointed out, cheerfully. “Apart from the hair.” She put her hand up to stroke Ginny’s hair, but Ginny batted her hand away crossly. But it was a comfort all the same to have arms wrapped around her.

“I need to get out of here,” Ginny said into Angharad’s shoulder.

“Really? Where?”

“I don’t know…”

“I’d invite you to Wales,” said Angharad, “But Grammar’s still in hospital.”

“Don’t you need to go and see her?” asked Ginny, curiously. 

“Probably.”

“Don’t you get on?” Ginny asked then. Angharad had never opened up about her family.

“Put it this way,” said Angharad. “Your parents are a lot saner.”

“Never been to Wales,” said Ginny.

“No foreign travel?” asked Angharad, playfully.

“No,” replied Ginny, entirely missing the sarcasm. “Well, apart from France this year.”

“We can go if you like,” said Angharad. “Tell you what, take me to see Grammar in St Mungo’s, and then we can spin over to Wales after that.”

“Apparate? You hate Apparating…”

Angharad squeezed Ginny. “I’ll hold on tight,” she said.

“But Harry might turn up here,” Ginny found herself saying.

“He can wait,” said Angharad, firmly.

Mr and Mrs Weasley raised no objection to the plan, to Ginny’s surprise. It helped that Angharad asked on behalf of both of them. “And there are no Dementors around there,” she stressed. “Probably not enough people to attract them. We rarely even get any mist.”

“But if there _is_ ,” said Mrs Weasley, sternly. “You come right back here, understand?”

“Sure,” said Ginny, quickly taking Angharad’s arm and spinning before her mother could change her mind.

They Apparated right outside Purge & Dowse, finding the street virtually empty, and stepped through the window when the bald dummy beckoned to them. Angharad seemed to know where they were going, and steered Ginny past the reception area and up the stairs. 

“Can’t we use a lift?” asked Ginny, breathlessly. 

“You need to walk more,” said Angharad, “If you’re coming to Wales, that is.”

Madam Marsh sat in her hospital bed as if it was a throne. She was small and apple-cheeked, but her eyes were firm, her mouth uncompromising.

“Merry Christmas, Grammar!” said Angharad, and leaned over to kiss her.

“Who’s this?” asked Madam Marsh, staring at Ginny, barely acknowledging the embrace.

“Ginny Weasley, Grammar.”

“How do you do?” said Ginny.

“It is Christmas, you know!” said Madam Marsh, severely.

“Happy Christmas,” said Ginny, lamely, approaching the other side of the bed. Angharad didn’t sit down, so neither did she.

“In a hospital ward?” returned Madam Marsh. “I don’t think so. You ARE one of those pure-blood Weasleys, I trust.”

“Er, yes…”

“Are you feeling better, Grammar?” asked Angharad, airily ignoring the interrogation.

“I have already explained,” said Madam Marsh, flatly. “It is a very uncomfortable condition. And the Healers here are charlatans. Rank charlatans!” She didn’t bother to lower her voice.

“We can’t really stop,” said Angharad, to Ginny’s surprise. “We’re off to Wales.”

Madam Marsh’s eyes swivelled back towards Ginny. “The house is shut up,” she said. “And protected. You can’t stay there.”

“No, of course not,” said Angharad, soothingly. “We’ll just take a look from the outside, and make sure everything’s all right.”

“Hmm,” said Madam Marsh. “Waste of time. Haven’t you anything better to do?”

“It is Christmas, Grammar,” said Angharad, cheerfully. “And Ginny’s never been to Wales!”

“Hmm,” said Madam Marsh again. 

“We’ll be back soon,” said Angharad, turned away and walked towards the exit.

“Bye,” said Ginny in embarrassment, and followed her.

They Apparated straight into Abergavenny High Street, which on Christmas Day was no busier than the street outside Purge & Dowse. “This way,” said Angharad, steering her uphill.

Madam Marsh’s house was a terraced house remarkably like its neighbours, in a long and narrow street. 

“Well, it hasn’t burnt down,” said Angharad cheerfully. She resumed walking down the street.

“Aren’t we going inside?” asked Ginny, following her in confusion.

“No,” said Angharad. “Didn’t you hear Grammar threaten us?”

“Well…”

“Not worth the risk, anyway.”

“So where are we going?”

“My parents’ house,” said Angharad.

“Do you still live there, then?”

“No,” said Angharad.

They kept walking, crossing under a busy road through a wide tunnel, and then they were climbing, towards a large armchair-shaped mountain.

“So where’s your parents’ house?” asked Ginny, out of breath by now.

Angharad gestured to the mountain in front of them. “Up there.”

Ginny eyed the slope morosely. “Oh, good,” she said.

“Do you need a pull?” asked Angharad. She was wearing her large rucksack, the one she’d taken to The Burrow, but the weight didn’t seem to bother her.

“No,” said Ginny. “Thanks…”

They left the houses behind, and kept climbing. They entered a brick tunnel. “Canal,” said Angharad, gesturing upwards, but Ginny didn’t have breath to enquire.

The wooded slope was strewn with rocks, and grew steeper. Angharad made it look easy, and despite the chilled air Ginny felt over-warm. “How much… further?” she gasped.

“Not far,” said Angharad over her shoulder.

They came to a tiny brick edifice, nothing more than a fireplace and chimney, situated in a gap in the woods, where they paused, to Ginny’s relief.

“Here,” said Angharad.

“What?”

“My parents’ house,” said Angharad. “Our house.”

“ _Here_?” Ginny looked around, perplexed. There was no other building in sight, apart from the chimney. 

“Mmh,” said Angharad. “My room’s about here,” gesturing with one vertical hand. “I used to sit and look out at the trees. All the time. It was so beautiful. I suppose it still is, but…”

“I don’t understand,” said Ginny.

Angharad turned to look at her. There was a strange expression in her eyes. “Extension charm,” she explained. “When my father died, it collapsed back the way it was. And Mum was inside.”

“You mean… She’s still in there?”

“They both are,” said Angharad. “I’m pretty sure of that.”

“So who…?”

“Death Eaters,” said Angharad. “Dad never said what his job was. I mean, I know he wasn’t an Auror, or anything, but as soon as He Who Must Not Be Named came back, we all had to hide.”

“But… He wasn’t a Death Eater himself, was he?” Ginny asked fearfully. “Like Snape?”

“No,” said Angharad, definitely. “But they wanted him dead. Well, they got their wish.”

“Were you…? Did you…?”

Angharad nodded. “My parents were worried about Hogwarts being attacked by then, so they made me come home. I got no warning… I saw Dad die,” she said, abruptly. “When the Death Eaters got close to the house, he told me to run, but I was looking over my shoulder when I got to the trees, and could see him in the doorway. I couldn’t see Mum, but there was a bolt of green, and he was falling, and then the house was gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” whispered Ginny.

“The Death Eaters didn’t seem to care about me,” said Angharad. “They didn’t come after me. They just left.”

“Did you recognise any of them?”

“No.”

“But you know they were Death Eaters?”

Angharad was screwing her eyes up in pain. “Do we have to talk about this?” she asked, fretfully.

“Do you want to go now?” suggested Ginny.

“Come and see where I live, first,” said Angharad, and turned left, towards the trees. Ginny followed her, and they walked about two hundred yards. A small stone hut seemed to rise out of the ground. It was covered in lichen, and had saplings growing from the roof. But inside the doorway was a disturbed pile of blankets. An upended cardboard box stood next to the blankets, and held a glass jar containing dead flowers. 

“Hard to find flowers in December,” said Angharad. “There may be some uphill.”

“You stay _here_?”

“When I can,” said Angharad. “You can just see the house from here. It’s not much fun staying with Grammar.”

“But… On your own? What do you eat?”

“It’s safe enough,” said Angharad. “And there’s a big Muggle food shop down the road.”

“Do you have Muggle money?” Ginny asked, curiously.

“No. But they have big bins there. And there are mushrooms here, sometimes…” She pointed. “And berries. Lots of berries. Not now, of course. Come on.” She turned and walked uphill. The light was failing now, but Ginny followed anyway, unsure.

“But doesn’t your grandmother care where you are…? Where are we going?”

“Further up,” said Angharad. “It’s lovely up there, and you can see better.”

Ginny was soon out of breath again, but didn’t want to leave her friend, or argue, even if she could have done so. Eventually the trees grew sparser, and when they paused to look there were glimpses down into the darkening valley below. It was a beautiful place, even with the huge steel frames that seemed to walk across the valley, leashed together by wires. The hills were spangled with scattered lights.

“Electricity,” said Angharad. “My mum was a Muggle. She told me lots of stuff. And I used to tell her about magic, and things. Dad never did, y’see.”

“Wasn’t she a witch, too?” asked Ginny in surprise.

“No. Just a Muggle. Dad was pure-blood, but decided to marry her anyway. Grammar wasn’t best pleased.”

She continued marching up the hill, and Ginny struggled to keep up with her, while the sky turned from blue to palest grey to black. Angharad produced her wand to light their way. Presently they came to an area surrounded by an arc of stones, just below the summit of the mountain, and Angharad led her there. She shrugged her rucksack off her shoulders as Ginny reached her. “Grammar gave me some money for Christmas,” said Angharad. “I bought myself a sleeping bag.”

She unzipped the rucksack and a dark mass bulged out of it. Angharad pulled the bag out of the rucksack and laid it on the ground.

“You want to sleep _here_? Won’t it rain?”

“It won’t rain,” said Angharad. She was stripping off her boots, then her jumper and jeans, while Ginny looked on in horror. At least there was no-one up here to see. Angharad climbed into the sleeping bag. “Don’t just stand there,” she said as she settled herself. “You’ll freeze.”

“We could just go home,” said Ginny, tartly. “We’d be warm enough there.”

“No,” said Angharad, composedly. “I don’t fancy it, really. Come on…” She patted the sleeping bag. 

Ginny eyed it; It didn’t look very roomy for two. But she was getting cold already. As quickly as she could she stripped off her outer clothes, and stepped gingerly on tiptoe over the cold grass to the sleeping bag. Angharad wriggled sideways to let her climb into the bag. It was immediately warmer than outside, even though Angharad’s skin was cold at first. Angharad put her arm around her and kissed her lightly, but then pulled her head back to examine her friend in the failing light.

“So…” she said.

“So?” asked Ginny with a brief shiver. This seemed a crazy idea, but why not?

“I want you to explain something to me,” said Angharad. “How a professional translator had to slog for years to learn half a dozen foreign languages, and you got to learn it all in one night.”

Ginny had to smile at that. “Maybe I’m just clever,” she said. It was nice to snuggle up to Angharad. The night was still, and there were a handful of clouds in the sky, lit by a partial moon. Quite romantic really, even though her nose was starting to freeze.

“Or maybe you’re so dense that lessons wouldn’t work? Did you think of that?”

“Nah,” said Ginny. 

“But why you?” asked Angharad. Her free hand was stroking Ginny’s stomach. 

“Ooh! Your hand’s cold… I honestly don’t know. I just said I wanted to learn French.”

“And they just said yes?”

“Well,” admitted Ginny, “Prof Stonelake said somebody asked on my behalf.”

Angharad mulled this. “Harry?” she asked eventually.

“No. I don’t think so. Maybe.”

“I can see you’ve given this a lot of thought. Or maybe this secret admirer of yours, the one who likes to look like me?”

“No way! For a start, he’s on the wrong side…”

Angharad’s hand stopped moving. “Which side?” she asked. 

“Never mind,” Ginny said hurriedly.

“What do you mean, the wrong side?” Angharad’s voice was cold.

“Look, Angharad, I’m sorry…” Ginny trailed off.

“Sorry about what?” asked Angharad.

“I can’t tell you,” said Ginny, unhappily.

There was a silence. There was little free room in the sleeping bag, but she could feel Angharad draw back. “You already have,” said Angharad. “You’re hiding a Death Eater?”

“He’s a kid…!”

“So he _is_ a Death Eater. Ginny, they killed everyone we loved! And you’re _hiding_ him?”

“I don’t know where he is!”

“Oh, dear. Your little Death Eater’s gone missing. Get out of here…” Angharad was reaching across her for the zip, and there was cold air down Ginny’s side. She struggled out of the sleeping bag and scrambled to her feet. The cold settled on her skin.

“I killed his parents!” she shouted. “I didn’t mean to, but…”

“What are you talking about?”

“Somebody laid a trap for them, and I sprung the trap!”

“So what? I’d give you a medal. If you hadn’t slept with him afterwards!”

“I didn’t! I didn’t!” Ginny was shaking with cold and emotion now, but she had to explain, she had to convince Angharad. “He never killed anybody! He was just weak, and they bullied him!”

“So who was he?”

“I can’t…”

“ _Who was he_?”

“Stop shouting…”

“Just tell me!”

“Just… OK! Draco Malfoy!”

“ _What_?” shouted Angharad. 

“You heard,” said Ginny, bitterly.

“Harry’s… _Your_ Harry’s biggest enemy, and you took him to _bed_ with you?” There was horror in Angharad’s voice.

“ _Because I killed his parents_!”

Angharad flung herself back theatrically.

“And I didn’t sleep with him!” Ginny shouted. “How many times do I have to tell you? I just hid him… Angharad? Angharad?”

“You’re not going to like this,” said a familiar voice behind her. “But I Obliviated her.”

She spun around. Draco Malfoy – a very tattered, skeletal Draco – was standing there with his wand in his hand. He was shivering.

“ _What are you doing_?” she shouted at him in horror.

“I had to!” he said. “If she tells anyone…”

“But what are you doing _here_?”

“I followed you,” he said. Another shiver. “I had to. I was staying at the hunting lodge, what’s left of it.”

“What’s _left_ …? But we gave the Giants the dagger! I thought they would just leave…”

“ _I_ gave them the dagger,” Malfoy reminded her. “And perhaps if we’d been quicker they wouldn’t have wrecked the place quite so much.”

“Oh no! Draco, I’m really sorry…!”

“Anyway, the Ministry came for me there. I got out the same way as last time. And I’d run out of Polyjuice. Ages ago. I’ve been hiding where I can. Just before Christmas, I went to the Burrow. I hoped you’d hide me.”

“No…” said Ginny, in fear.

“Then I saw _her_ through the window.” He nodded to Angharad’s unconscious form. “So I knew you couldn’t help. But with nowhere else to go, I stayed around. Then you left. I saw you Apparate with her. I tried to follow you, guessing you’d come here. I remembered she came from Abergavenny. But you weren’t here. I thought that was it, then. I was so cold. I was sitting in a doorway when I heard you Apparate. I was sure you’d hear my teeth chattering. Please. I need something to eat, and get warm!”

“There’s nowhere here…”

“Your place?” pleaded Draco.

“You can’t…”

“Please! I’m begging you!”

She could see the image on the Ministry map once more, of the two of them in bed together. Of what Dawlish and the thin-faced man had said. There was rising hatred of herself now. But what choice had she?

“You’d best come home then,” she said, dully. “But what about Angharad? What will she remember?” she asked as she stood.

“Nothing about the last couple of days,” said Draco. “So she won’t remember coming home with you.”

“Or Christmas,” said Ginny, feeling even worse. She struggled to find a solution. “We’ll have to leave her here,” she said finally.

She felt very guilty then. She went over to Angharad and tucked her bare arms into the sleeping bag, and zipped it up. She put her hand on her shoulder, but she seemed to be sleeping normally.

“Take some hair,” said Draco behind her. His voice was quivering too. Mechanically she separated a strand of Angharad’s hair, tugged it free and clenched it in her fist. Angharad didn’t stir.

She stood and looked at her, trying to ignore her clamouring thoughts. “We’ve got to go…”

“Are you going to dress, first?” he asked.

She looked down at herself in horror. “No wonder I was shivering,” she said. “Wait…” 

She pulled her clothes back on, took his arm, and they were spinning, and they were in her room.

“Get into bed,” she said. “You’re freezing.”

But he was putting his arms around her, and she felt dizzy. He was so cold. His lips sought hers, and she was fighting him off. “I’ll get some Polyjuice,” she said. “Get into bed…”

“My clothes…” he started. They were filthy.

“Take them off,” she said. When she left the room, she could hear voices downstairs. Hopefully Hermione was one of them. She climbed another floor to Hermione’s and Angelina’s room, which was empty. She could see Hermione’s beaded bag tucked under her pillow, and Summoned the Polyjuice Potion from it, and then an empty bottle. _You can always rely on Hermione_ , she told herself.

It was the work of seconds to transfer a small amount of Polyjuice into the bottle and add Angharad’s hair to it. It went its characteristic silver colour, and she hurried downstairs with it.

“Here,” she said, offering the bottle to Malfoy, who was in bed now. His eyes searched hers, but then he reached out for the bottle and drank. She turned away before he started to change. “I’ll get you some food,” she said. “Stay here…”

This time she went downstairs. Her parents were amazed to see her.

“Sorry,” she said. “Angharad fell in a stream, so I brought her back here. Can I get her some food?”

“Poor Angharad!” was the response from most of them.

“Oh no,” said George. “Food’s all gone…”

She barely had the energy to smile at this, and of course the kitchen table was still crammed with covered dishes. She heaped two platefuls – in truth she was starving too – made her excuses and carried them upstairs. Her mother followed her, catching her at her bedroom door, to her dismay, but she merely used her wand to reheat the food before tutting and returning downstairs. 

Draco – a wild- and windswept-looking Angharad now – was in bed now, but still shivering. She’d forgotten any knives and forks, but they both sat on the bed and burned their fingers as they ate. She let Draco finish her plate as well. She could easily have eaten the rest herself, but his great hunger was obvious.

“What have you been eating?” she asked. 

He shrugged. “For the past week? Almost nothing,” he said as he cleaned her plate with his fingers.

“We’ll have to stay in here for now,” she said, mechanically. “I’m too tired to make up all the details for my parents.”

His eyes softened. “You look tired. I’ll sleep on the floor. I’m grateful,” he added. “You have no idea.”

“It’s OK,” she said. “Stay there.” It was hard then to peel off her outer clothes, and then get into bed beside him. She should get some barrier pillows, she knew. “Get some sleep,” she said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

She felt giddy again as she lay down. And she’d left Angharad on that mountain top. But there was nothing she could do. Nothing. She had to stay with him. 

His hand moved and touched her bare skin. She wanted to tell him not to, but simply turned over away from him. 

_This is treason_ , she told herself. _But what choice have I?_

To her surprise, it was daylight when she awoke. Draco was still asleep, and of course he was Draco once again. But it was too late now. Something made her turn over and put her arm across him, protectively, which was a mistake. Her fingers were tight on his bare arm then, and she was shaking with emotion.

Then she was shaking him.

“Draco,” she whispered urgently. “Draco, wake up!”

His eyes came open, and he looked at her in surprise, tensing as he did so, and around at the room. But then his free arm was coming around her, and he was kissing her.

She pulled herself back. “No,” she said. “No…” His arms were so strong, and it was almost impossible to break free. “No!” she said loudly. “Draco, listen! They’re coming for you!”

He didn’t seem to hear at first, intent on her as he was. But then he lifted his head and looked at her in puzzlement. “Who?” he asked.

“The Aurors!”

“ _What_?”

“They saw us… They can see us here… They’ve got a magic map, and it showed us here together. I went to the Ministry… I was trying to get a job…”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, loudly.

“ _Shh_! They said… they said I was a traitor. They took me and showed me the map, of the two of us in… in bed together… and then they told me to bring you back here, and they’d catch you. I said I didn’t know where you were… They said… They said they would let me work for the Aurors if I helped trap you.”

He was frozen now. “So have you told them? Have you contacted them?”

“No,” she said, miserably. “I don’t have to. They’ll see us on the map…”

“When will they be here?”

“I don’t know. Soon…”

He was silent. “You’ve got to go!” she told him, angrily. “You’ve got to leave now!”

“Why are you telling me?” he asked.

“I can’t…”

“Can’t what?”

“Just get dressed!” she cried. “There’s some Polyjuice left. Quickly!” She darted out of bed and handed him the bottle. It was barely a third full. Would there be enough? “You’ve got to get out of here!”

“No!” he said, firmly.

She was crying now. “You must!” she insisted. “Don’t let them catch you! They’ll put you in Azkaban!”

Suddenly there were noises downstairs. Strange, deep voices.

“Go!” she shouted.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said.

“I killed your parents!”

“ _You_ didn’t do that! That was somebody else!”

There were heavy, hurrying footsteps on the stairs.

“Get out of here!” she shouted. She reached out for her wand, next to the bed, and went to the door.

“What are you _thinking_?” he yelled at her. “If you do anything now, it won’t just be a job you lose! They’ll put you in Azkaban as well!” He strode across the room towards her.

There was a thump on the door. Draco dragged her wand out of her hand and flung it away.

“ _No_!” she cried.

The door burst open. Without a wand, she could do nothing but use her fists to try and stop them, but there were three of them, and she was powerless. They pushed her violently aside and heaved Malfoy off the bed, and then they were dragging him downstairs.

“I thought it was Angharad,” she said afterwards, to her parents, and the others there. “But he must have… I don’t know how, but he changed places with her. I didn’t know. But the Aurors…” She stopped then, and it was very hard to make herself speak. So very hard. “But the Aurors followed him here. When I woke up he was Malfoy again.”

“You were _so_ lucky!” said Angelina in horror. “He could have killed you!”

Ginny shook her head. She was in tears still, but nobody questioned that. “He was cold and hungry, he said. He just wanted somewhere warm.”

“And you’re sure Angharad is all right?” asked Mr Weasley.

“The Aurors found her, they said. That’s how they knew where he was.” Why was lying always easier than telling the truth? “They had to modify her memory,” she said. “So she wouldn’t remember what happened to her.”

Dawlish had been ghoulishly pleased and expansive. He hadn’t bothered to interrogate her, beyond making sure she didn’t tell anyone about the Department of Mysteries’ magic map.

“And we’ll see about a job for you,” he’d added. “As long as you behave,” he said. 

“I gave you Draco Malfoy!” she said angrily.

“But who _else_ do you know?” he asked triumphantly. “We’ll be watching!”

She couldn’t say anything further then. She’d let Draco go to Azkaban, as well as killing his parents. If she’d had her wand, she wasn’t sure what she would have done to Dawlish then. Or herself.


	20. The Head Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

The rest of the Christmas holiday was an eerily easy time. She expected her parents, particularly, to make demands on her. To want to be sure that no harm had come to her. To hear exactly what had happened. To hear her explain herself. But they took her misery to be shock after Malfoy’s treatment of her. They couldn’t comprehend her treachery, how she blamed herself, for everything. So they left her alone. She could hear Ron and Hermione talking about her in whispers, and she hated that, but less than the alternative.

Harry appeared towards the end of that time, with no explanations as to where he’d been, but she couldn’t talk to him. She couldn’t even look him in the eye. What interpretation he put on her behaviour he didn’t say, but he didn’t press her, and left soon afterwards.

So she was left mostly on her own, to listen exclusively to her own condemnation. She still couldn’t understand her own feelings for Malfoy. Only the overriding guilt that filled her whenever she thought about him. If only she could do something for him… But there was no such sacrifice possible. She was powerless. Not even a pawn now. A nothing.

The idea of returning to Hogwarts was an impossibility now. How could she function as a human being? As a prefect? But at the start of term, she was on the Hogwarts Express once more, staring numbly out of the window. Then the walls of Hogwarts surrounded her again, and there was a comfort in routine, in fulfilling her duties. As long as she didn’t have to think, or judge, or make decisions beyond the trivial, she could function as a prefect. In class, she would sit listlessly, rarely responding to questions, and her homework remained blank parchment.

Once more, they didn’t blame her as they should. She would have welcomed censure by now, of any kind, of treachery to the school, her parents and her friends. Or judgment over her betrayal of Malfoy, from some imagined impartial judge. But everyone assumed she had been hurt badly by him, and could never conceive how badly she had hurt him.

Angharad Marsh was over a week late returning to Hogwarts, and when she did everything changed.

Ginny met her at the gate, and in her frozen state this seemed one more welcome routine task. But in the privacy of the main gate Angharad was screaming at her.

“ _You left me there_!” Angharad yelled. 

“ _Left_ you?” asked Ginny in horror, fighting free of her numbness. “What do you mean?”

The fury in Angharad’s eyes made her quail. “I’d spent _weeks_ looking forward to Christmas!” Angharad shouted. “Didn’t you _realise_? The idea of spending two weeks with the love of my life…”

“Angharad…!” Ginny tried to interrupt, in anguish now.

“But no!” stormed Angharad. “I’m nothing to you! Less than nothing! You just didn’t _care_! You just _dumped_ me, and went off with _him_!”

“But…” How did she know?

“Oh, yes!” yelled Angharad. “You _Obliviated_ me! Just to stop me getting in the way! I got that part! You _bitch_ …!”

In all the excitement, Ginny - and Dawlish and his Aurors - had failed to Obliviate Madam Marsh.

“So I go to sleep in my room here,” shouted Angharad, pointing an angry finger at the castle, “Thinking tomorrow’s the day, the best day of my life, and wake up on that effing mountainside! On my effing own! And I’m stuck there! I can’t Apparate, remember? No broom! Can’t get to a Floo fireplace! I have to walk all the way _down_ the mountain so I can stick my hand out and summon the Knight Bus, and I’m travel-sick all the way to St Mungo’s! And then Grammar tells me I _did_ spend Christmas with you! That you oh-so-kindly Apparated me along to St Mungo’s, and then to Wales, and then you _effing dumped me_! What had I _ever_ done to you, to deserve that?”

“Nothing…!”

“ _But that didn’t effing stop you, did it_?”

“Angharad!” Ginny tried, in horror. “Please listen…!”

“No, _you_ listen! Next I hear that Draco Malfoy, son of late- _un_ lamented Lucius Malfoy, was dragged kicking and screaming from _your_ _bedroom_! So now I know _exactly_ who you disguised as me! You slut! You treacherous, scheming _bitch_ …!”

“We need to get back to school now,” said Ginny, shaken, reaching her hand out to her ex-friend’s arm.

Angharad wrenched her arm free. “Don’t _touch_ me!” she snarled, and marched angrily towards the castle.

“Who are you going to tell…?” Ginny called after her.

Angharad turned briefly without stopping. “ _Everybody…_ ”

Perhaps she should have Obliviated Angharad there and then. But she couldn’t do it. She didn’t thirst for judgment, but she couldn’t hurt Angharad any further. 

And it probably wouldn’t have helped. Presumably Angharad had already told everyone she could reach, and her grandmother presumably had too. Even a fully-manned Auror department, she told herself, couldn’t stop this getting out. 

The idea of the story reaching McGonagall’s ears indirectly was unbearable, so she bent her steps to the Headmistress’s study, and tried her best to lay out the story to her in a logical, sensible fashion.

Professor McGonagall’s initial expression looked like someone bitten by a Hippogriff, but soon it turned to anger, then rage, and she was shouting uninhibitedly at Ginny. Out of the corner of her eye, Ginny could see all the ex-Headmaster portraits empty, their occupiers fleeing, fingers in ears. The exception was Professor Snape, who sat there with a near-smile on his face, gazing at her unblinkingly.

“And _then_ what did you do?” shouted McGonagall.

“Nothing!” said Ginny, miserably. “I couldn’t do anything! They took him away! They said they were going to put him in Azkaban!”

 _“WHAT_?”

“Azkaban…”

“ _And you let them_?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Ginny asked in bafflement.

“Didn’t you have a wand?” shouted McGonagall.

“Draco took it off me when the Aurors arrived…”

Professor McGonagall began to make noises like the Hogwarts Express. “Oh, did he?” she growled at last. “So he’s a fool, too?”

“I…”

McGonagall jerked a pointed finger downwards. “ _This_ is not some medieval romance!” Another jerk of her finger. “ _This_ is real life! When I appointed you Head Girl, I expected you to show a considerable amount of _judgment_. I expected you to know what to do! Instead, you _allow_ yourself to become entangled with a boy you should have known full well to keep _away_ from, for _his_ sake as much as _yours_. _Particularly_ when you decided you have _feelings_ for him!”

“But I didn’t…” tried Ginny, her face as hot as the sun. “I just felt guilty about his parents…”

“Stupidity on stupidity! _Nor_ did you think to share this information with someone such as _your parents_ , or _me_!”

“I couldn’t…”

“ _Couldn’t!_ You’ve let an innocent pupil of this school be sent to Azkaban! Because you _couldn’t_!”

“He’s not…”

McGonagall overrode her. “Has he been to trial?” she yelled. “NO! _Convicted_? NO! That makes him _innocent_! D’ye _ever_ listen to anything I’ve ever said? Get out of my sight! And do you have any idea how _tired_ I am of saying that to you?”

“Yes…”

“So _go_! No! Wait! Take me to the main gate _immediately_!”

Dazed, Ginny did so. As she watched her Headmistress storm through the gates she tried in desperation to arrange her thoughts. “What…?” she called out.

McGonagall turned angrily towards her. “ _What should you do_? It’s a little late for that, don’t ye think? But if you’re looking something to occupy your time, I suggest you build a set of _public stocks_ in the main courtyard, because _you_ are going to need them pretty soon!”

And she Disapparated with an angry snap.

Ginny decided she didn’t understand people. Not anybody. She expected to become a pariah, instantly, for everyone to shun her, even spit at her, and turn their faces away. To be hated. 

And there were plenty who did. Her fellow prefects looked at her askance, again as expected, and her careful team-building was in ruins. But what she didn’t expect was for so many to find it _funny_.

“Give us a kiss!” noisome groups of fourth-year boys would call out whenever she went past. Or “Who are you going to snog next?” Or “Filch wants a kiss too!”

“Eeuw!” third-year girls would shout. “Haven’t you got any _taste_?” Or “I bet your tongue tastes funny _now_!” Or “How low can you get? Ever kissed a _Flobberworm_?” Or “Didn’t he have _bad breath_?” Or “He Who Must Not Be Snogged!” Endless variation.

Anger eventually came to her aid. She started handing out detentions, and docking house points. Neither had much effect, apart from more laughter. Only when she broke McGonagall’s first-second-and-third rules and hauled out her wand did the ribbing calm down, and it took half-a-dozen Bat-Bogey Hexes to permanently cure the problem. Even then broad grins seemed to have permanently replaced any courtesy they had paid her in the past. And dealing with the inarguable hostility from many quarters was an added unpleasantness.

But anger at all of them gave her less time to hate herself.

McGonagall summoned her to her office a week later.

“He’s been released,” she said brusquely.

“From Azkaban?” Ginny asked.

“Yes.”

The relief was indescribable. “So where is he now?”

“Don’t worry,” said McGonagall. “He’s not going anywhere.”

“What does that mean?” she asked anxiously.

The Headmistress cocked an eyebrow at her. “Rest assured that no harm will be coming to Mr Malfoy. People like him always land on their feet. Or on people like you. Now…”

“Get out of my sight,” Ginny parroted, happily.

“Are those _stocks_ ready yet?” McGonagall called after her.

Ginny felt profoundly lighter then, as if she would blow away in a breeze, or be wafted out of the nearest window. The hatred and the jokes mattered a lot less then.

The feeling of lightness and happiness barely lasted a day. “Oh, Miss Weasley,” said Professor McGonagall at lunch the following day. “I have some good news, I hope. We have a Head Boy arriving this afternoon.”

“Great,” said Ginny, uncertainly. In truth, she’d grown to like being queen of all she surveyed, even now. “Who is it?”

“Michael Corner,” said McGonagall.

Ginny’s heart plummeted. “Oh,” she managed to say, and nothing else.

“Miss Weasley,” said McGonagall severely, “If we limited the choice to only the people you _haven’t_ been out with, we would be severely restricted!” 

Which wasn’t entirely fair; Ginny really wouldn’t have minded any of her previous boyfriends in the rôle, but she had parted from Michael on terms of such acrimony she still preferred to avoid him. Several years ago, she’d had a brief dalliance with Terry Boot, Michael’s Ravenclaw friend, and Michael had then moved in on the relationship. At one exciting yet confusing point she’d actually had two boyfriends, and had found it hard to juggle two simultaneous relationships. But then Michael had entirely squeezed Terry out. And then he’d cemented his ascendancy by treating Ginny like an appendage, ordering her around and expecting her to do his bidding. Some of his bidding had not been to her taste, but it had been hard to free herself from his controlling behaviour. She had reached out a hand to Harry’s friend Dean Thomas, an easy-going boy from the year above who had the added advantage of being nearly as tall as Harry. Michael had opted not to mix it with Dean, to her relief, but there had been bitter words exchanged before he would leave her alone.

And now he was back.

“Hello, Michael,” she said tonelessly when she met him at the gate. 

He gave her a twisted smile. “Well, it’s little Ginny,” he said with heavy irony. “My, what a mess you’ve been making in my absence. Well, your worries are over now. You can leave the decisions to me.”

“We’re joint heads,” she replied, determined to keep her temper. “We make decisions jointly. And if we can’t, McGonagall will.”

“How is the old girl bearing up?” he asked then. “I hear she’s failing too.”

“She’s doing great,” said Ginny shortly. 

“I doubt it,” said Michael. “But she can take a back seat now.”

Ginny felt her temper slipping. “You’re not in charge, Michael,” she said. 

“It’s how I work best, Ginny,” he said. 

He was true to his word. Almost as soon as he was in post, she found her decisions reversed on many issues. Ginny was sure it was a deliberate policy: No sooner had she awarded or taken away house points, or given a detention, than he would overrule her. Any public statement she made, he would refute, even more publicly. She complained to McGonagall about this, but the Headmistress wasn’t sympathetic. “Viewpoints, Ginny,” she said. “Different viewpoints. You need to work out your differences. That’s the responsibility of prefects. And I’m not prepared to sit in judgment over your squabbles!”

Michael had charisma, and seemed to attract people to him, particularly the senior boys. He could be seen in the middle of an admiring crowd at any time of day. Even in lessons the seating changed to fit his whim, and the teachers seemed unhappy to confront him. Ginny still had her friends, particularly among the other prefects, but they would rarely voice their opinions in front of Michael, and he ruled by default unless Ginny stood up to him. She would do so when she felt she really had to, but she soon grew tired of her friends suggesting she shouldn’t oppose him.

“He’s a popular guy,” said Juliana at one point. “I don’t like him any more than you do, but you’re just stirring up trouble if you go against him.”

“I’m not going up against him!” stormed Ginny. “ _He’s_ going up against _me_!”

“Maybe, but he’s got the popular vote at the moment. After all…” she trailed off in embarrassment.

“After all,” completed Ginny, crossly, “he hasn’t had Voldemort’s best buddy for a boyfriend! I know!”

“It’ll settle down,” said Juliana, soothingly, but Ginny didn’t want soothing.

His next move – if that’s what it was – was to annex Angharad as his girlfriend. His circle of male friends expanded to include her, and she was always to be seen amongst them. She didn’t seem to say a lot: Her rôle appeared to be purely decorative. Her expression grew ever more mask-like. Ginny hoped that she was now seeing the real Michael, and would soon shun him, but she waited in vain as the term progressed. 

Angharad took to wearing more makeup – base, lipstick, blusher, mascara, the works - caking it on, to make her face even more blank and doll-like. Her hair transformed overnight from subdued darkest brown to gleaming bronze. Her fingernails became garish talons, and she took to wearing jewellery as well. She would ignore any complaints from McGonagall or the rest of the staff about the inappropriateness of this. 

Rumours of her insufficiently-private behaviour with Michael – and even with some of his friends – grew, and although Ginny would robustly deny their truth, she could only worry that they were accurate.

Ginny tried several times to break through Angharad’s reserve, but her old friend remained almost silent in her company. 

“She’ll forgive you eventually,” said Juliana, breezily, but Ginny was no longer sure that was true.

Another of Michael Corner’s games – and it seemed a particularly cruel one to Ginny – was his institution of the Roll of Honour. Ginny felt the loss of those who had died during the Battle of Hogwarts as much as anybody. More than many, in that her own brother had died here. But the evil genius in Michael hijacked everyone’s grief for his own advantage.

He started with a collection – and everyone had to donate, or risk Michael’s loud contempt – and with this he produced a large parchment-paged book. On each page there was the name of one of the fallen, a photograph, and a description of the victim and their demise. 

But his cruelty was encapsulated in the spell he cast on the book. Whenever someone drew near, the book would turn of its own accord to the pages that would hurt them the most. For Ginny, this was her brother, of course, her ex, Terry Boot, and Jack Sloper, her old Quidditch teammate. And it was impossible to turn the pages by hand. The book – Michael – decided who the viewer should see.

She felt sure there was an ulterior motive to all this, and felt unkind for even thinking it, but it occurred to Ginny only slowly that this was a kind of blame game. “They didn’t need to die,” he, or his satellites, would say, with a shake of the head. The main blame always seemed to come down to one person: Harry Potter. He had lacked the vision, the intelligence, the good sense, and the inevitable result had been “a battle held where no battle should ever be”, in the words of Michael. Voldemort’s name was never mentioned, or even the Death Eaters. It was as if Harry had gone to battle, on his own, out of sheer stupidity and malice.

Ginny could never discover whether this move was purely to enrage her, but even in her calmest moments, thoughts of the Roll of Honour were enough to drive her to the edge. And at the same time it gave Michael cachet, and status, and an unassailable position. 

And almost entirely isolated her from the entire school.


	21. The Goblin's Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

The next Quidditch match involving Gryffindor came all too soon. Ginny had even less time now to arrange practices, whilst constantly battling with Michael Corner, and there was a hostility in the team over the Malfoy affair. Only it wasn’t an affair, she would repeat endlessly.

They were playing Slytherin, and even though Slytherin House was still down on numbers, their players were every bit as hulking and threatening as previous years. Montgomery was one of them, to her annoyance. She’d never seen him on a broom, so presumably he was there just to cause trouble.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ginny said hypocritically to the rest of the team as they gathered on the pitch. “They’re clueless and they’ll be slow. We can do this.”

Madam Hooch, who was refereeing, blew her whistle. “Are we ready?” she asked, loudly. But Montgomery put his hand up.

“Wait!” he called.

“What are we waiting for?” asked Madam Hooch, in irritation. 

“Our mascot,” said Montgomery, with a smug smile Ginny itched to wipe off.

“Mascot?” queried Madam Hooch.

A robed figure with a painted-green face was walking across the pitch towards the players.

“Get off the pitch!” shouted Madam Hooch. “Ten points from Slytherin!”

As if this was a signal, the figure peeled off the robe and dropped it to the ground. 

“MISS MARSH!” yelled Madam Hooch. “GET OFF THE PITCH!”

It was Angharad. She held up a fist. “Slytherin!” she yelled. She shouted in silence, because everyone was staring.

Presumably she was wearing something like a swimsuit, but it looked just like skin, and everywhere she was painted green and silver, and she had silver hair. 

A huge silver serpent was painted across her body. The tail of the snake wrapped twice around her left leg, reappearing to cross her stomach diagonally, then over her right shoulder. From there, the serpent’s head dropped down, jaws agape, with the head on one side of her chest and the tongue curling onto the other.

Angharad turned and raised another fist. “ _Slytherin!”_ she screamed again, in the direction of the Slytherin stand, who roared and cheered. Ginny could see now that the serpent was continuous, across one buttock, around her waist, and then reappearing at the bottom of her ribs and rising over one shoulder. Her long silver hair looked spectacular. Ginny’s mouth was dry.

Angharad turned once more and headed towards the Slytherin team, passing a totally bemused Madam Hooch. She flung one arm around the head of each Slytherin team member in turn and kissed them, and another roar arose. She walked off the pitch, towards the Slytherin stand. When she got there, she turned her back to the stands and raised her arms. A spell, cast from above, pulled her upwards, to more cheers. She climbed nimbly onto the rail and brought her fist up once more while the Slytherins roared their hearts out.

 _“CAN WE START NOW?”_ shouted Madam Hooch, angrily.

The rest of the Gryffindor team were casting sidelong worried glances at Ginny. “Don’t get angry,” said Polly to her, looking concerned.

“I’m not!” she snapped, but that was no longer true, was it? “Ignore her,” she said. “Ignore everything. Just play the game. Remember what we’ve practised…”

Madam Hooch was calling the captains forward, and she shook hand with Montgomery, who gave her an insolent smile. “Feeling lucky, Weasley?” he asked her loudly.

“Don’t say anything!” Polly called out behind her, but in truth Ginny had nothing to say, and her teeth were locked together in anger.

“Mount your brooms!” called Madam Hooch.

Ginny rose crossly, faster than the others, until she was high above the pitch. She could see the Slytherin Seeker, Adderly, streaking diagonally across the pitch, and then turning in a figure of eight. “Show-off,” she muttered to herself, vowing not to be distracted.

A Bludger whistled past her, making her start, and she realised the match had begun. “Concentrate!” she said to herself, crossly.

Gryffindor were in possession, hearteningly, but then Montgomery smashed a Bludger into Euan, who dropped the Quaffle, and a Slytherin Chaser zoomed below him to catch it, and passed it to another Chaser…

There was the Snitch! It was below her, and instinct made her dive towards it, but then she hesitated. Team morale would suffer if she ended the game as quickly as last time. She knew that. And, infuriatingly, the Snitch seemed as confused and sleepy as in the last match. She made a decision, and veered sharply towards Adderly, who was fortunately moving the wrong way. He saw her over his shoulder, and twisted away from her, looking all around him. He didn’t spot the Snitch, to her relief, but when she looked again she couldn’t see it either.

Slytherin scored. When play resumed, Gryffindor had the Quaffle once more, but this time the other Slytherin Beater launched a Bludger at Cwenhild, who lost her nerve and passed badly to Euan, who barely caught the Quaffle and then fumbled it. 

“Twenty-zero!” called Dominic. “Slytherin lead!”

Ginny could see the painted figure of Angharad standing calmly on the rail for everyone to see, and she seemed to be staring at Ginny. This was personal, wasn’t it? Nothing about house rivalry.

There was a sinking feeling in Ginny’s chest now. Gryffindor – Polly – managed to score, but there was a remorseless rise in Slytherin points as Montgomery’s Bludger tactics shattered the Gryffindor offence. Kirke managed to hit Cwenhild with a Bludger, and she was knocked off her broom in surprise. She hit the ground hard. Ginny could see her struggling to rise, to her huge relief, but her youngest Chaser was no longer fit to play, and the Slytherin score climbed ever higher. 

“One hundred and thirty to fifty!” called Dominic. “Come on, Gryffindor!”

 _Why_ _did I ignore the Snitch?_ Ginny kept asking herself, her heart like lead. We’re going to lose if I don’t catch it, and soon! But the Golden Snitch seemed to have disappeared entirely. Where was it?

Slytherin scored again.

Another Bludger came soaring past her, almost vertically upwards, and in her surprise she snapped her head up to watch its path. _Why didn’t I see that_? she demanded angrily of herself.

As she watched, the Bludger flew past a tiny golden speck high above her. The Snitch! The two balls had nearly collided, and the little ball seemed to veer. Then it was descending rapidly, as if it was going to hit the stands. She sped after it. 

In front of the stands was a figure on a broom, hardly moving. Adderly, Slytherin Seeker!

“ _No_!” she cried out, which was a mistake. Adderly looked around in surprise, and spotted first Ginny, heading towards him, and then the Snitch. It was too easy for him. He put his hand out, uncoordinatedly, and the Snitch smacked into his palm, and he closed his fingers around it, in amazement.

A huge roar from the crowd.

“Slytherin win!” shouted Dominic, barely audible above the cheers and boos. “Two hundred and ninety points to fifty!”

Ginny’s path took her close to where Angharad was still standing, on the stand railing. As she watched, Angharad gave her a blank stare, extended her arms and jumped off the railing, landing gracefully.

“I make a good mascot,” she called to Ginny, then turned and walked towards the tunnel. Her robe was still lying on the pitch, but that didn’t seem to worry her.

“I’m not blaming you,” said McGonagall at their next meeting, half-way through the term. “But Angharad Marsh has become a little strange recently.”

“ _Blaming_ me?!” snapped Ginny. “It’s nothing to do with me!”

“I think she took things badly…”

“And that caused her to launch into an extra public affair with _Michael Corner_? And parade around almost naked?”

“Calm yourself! There must be a _reason_ for this behaviour,” said McGonagall frostily. “Have you tried reasoning with her? She _was_ your friend, after all.”

“She won’t talk to me! Even now!”

“What about in lessons?”

“As if I don’t exist. She’s fine with everybody else. It’s totally deliberate.”

“So it is about you,” concluded McGonagall. 

“Can’t _you_ speak to her?” pleaded Ginny.

“I haven’t the time. I have spoken to Professor Flitwick. He is reluctant to intervene. She lost her parents, you know.”

“I _know_ …”

“Miss Granger, your attitude towards me is growing increasingly unacceptable! Do you want me to take away your prefect badges?”

“How would that help?”

“You will address me as Professor or Headmistress,” said McGonagall, freezingly. “And you will do your utmost to heal the rift between you and Miss Marsh.”

“Yes, Headmistress.”

“Now out of my sight!”

It was a waste of time, of course. It was hard to find Angharad on her own. When she was with Michael Corner, she was totally silent, and he was as unpleasant as always. In lessons they shared without him, she ignored Ginny’s attempts to be friendly. And beyond that Ginny would have had to storm the Ravenclaw common room to be able to confront her.

This had to be Corner poisoning her, she told herself. Perhaps even literally. Maybe an Imperius curse? She seemed so strange nowadays. But McGonagall wouldn’t listen whenever she harked on that theme, either. 

An improvement in the weather would have helped, but the weather was misty at best and torrential rain at worst. Even the usual leavening of snow was washed into dirty grey whenever it fell. And Hogsmeade remained out of bounds.

 _If Harry was a proper boyfriend_ , she told herself in frustration, _he’d lend me his Marauder’s Map_. But whenever that gripe occurred to her, the image of Malfoy and her sharing a bed together crept into her mind.

 _It’s as if Draco cared_ , she found herself thinking. When they’d broken into her room, he’d protected her, from her own anger. _Maybe I’m not being totally stupid here_ , she would tell herself. 

_Or he’s just the manipulative Death Eater Harry has always hated_.

Some empty weeks later, Professor McGonagall rose at dinner to announce there was a tribe of Giants close by. The outburst from the assembled listeners was deafening.

“Quiet, please! Giants are no risk to us! We are perfectly safe here! They are on the move in this direction… I asked for quiet…! The Ministry and the school will be keeping a close eye on the situation!”

“What about Hogsmeade?” shouted someone. 

“Hogsmeade remains out of bounds. And the village is in the process of being evacuated as we speak.”

The Headmistress had to let the noise rise to a roar before she could overcome it.

“I repeat we are perfectly safe! The castle protection is at its utmost! The Ministry agrees there is no need at this point to close the school. Several parents have contacted me already, and I have reassured them this is the safest place for you all.”

“Have any parents actually removed their children?” This was Michael Corner, at his oiliest. 

McGonagall shot him a filthy look, and Ginny’s heart rejoiced, if briefly. “That is all,” the Headmistress said, stiffly, and the noise rose again as the pupils tried to work out who had gone.

McGonagall approached Ginny a few mornings later in the Gryffindor common room, while the latter was trying to catch up with her Potions homework. “There is someone to see you,” McGonagall said, frostily. “At the main gate. You will not admit him to the building.”

“A Giant?” Ginny asked facetiously, but she received no answer other than an angrily-swept robe as McGonagall strode away.

In fact the figure at the gate was remarkably small; Was this an unaccompanied first year? But when she got closer she realised it was a Goblin, wrapped up against the cold, and that she recognised him.

“Bag…” she started. What was his name?

“Bragrak,” said the Goblin, in annoyance. “You refused my offer, and you suffered for it.”

“Actually, it wasn’t my house…”

He overrode her. “And many others suffered.”

“What do you mean? What others?”

“I find it hard to believe you are really that naïve,” he said. “Can we discuss this inside?” There was a fine driving rain beating across them.

“No,” said Ginny. Then: “I’m sorry. I’m forbidden from letting you enter.”

He glared at her. “Why is that? Has human courtesy entirely gone?”

“I really don’t know why,” said Ginny. “I can’t offer anywhere else to meet. And I’m not allowed to leave the school.”

He laughed, shortly. “Because of the Dementors! I find that amusing!”

“Do you?” she replied, coolly. “I thought Goblins were afraid of Dementors. Like the rest of us.” A gust of wind blew a sheet of rain into her face. “So why did you want to see me?” she asked.

He stared at her in silence for some time. She was tempted to turn away and walk off, but his comments about human treatment of Goblins pricked at her.

“We need your help,” he said eventually.

That surprised her. “Whose help?”

Another pause. “Yours,” he said.

“ _Mine_?” She found herself stepping back, nervously. Was he going to abduct her, and take her to the Giants? Hadn’t they got back their dagger now? Hadn’t they wrecked the hunting lodge in retribution?

He gave her a mirthless smile. “You have no trust. And no intelligence, either.”

“And you’re short,” she said in annoyance. “Are we just here to insult each other?”

“You must come with me. You will not be harmed. You may bring a companion. You will be returned here within a day.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, honestly.

“I will not say more now.”

“I can’t just leave,” she said helplessly. “I told you…”

“…Because of the Dementors. Even though you have your wands to protect you.”

“You know that, do you?”

“But of course you must bring your wand. To keep _you_ safe.” 

There was resentment in his voice then, as his eyes dropped to her waist. Her wand was invisible, but he seemed to know where it lay. It was hard to read his expression, but she felt sure it was envy.

“Look,” she said, annoyed in her turn, “We’re not allowed to leave the school. End of.”

“Not even to help an entire race? Several races?”

“What are you talking about? Which races?”

Bragrak stared at her, consideringly. “The Giants,” he said eventually. “The Giants need your help.”

“How am I supposed to help _Giants_?” Ginny burst out, angrily. “As a _toothpick_?”

“You must listen,” said Bragrak. “The dagger you stole…”

“The Giants got it back!”

“The dagger you stole,” repeated Bragrak, “was Voldemort’s. He gave it to the Giants to buy their help. But it has stopped working!”

“So?” said Ginny, uncertainly. “So Voldemort’s a traitorous scumbag. Big surprise…”

“What is the Giants’ biggest fear?” asked Bragrak, intently. “What do they dread above everything?”

“Brussel sprouts,” said Ginny, randomly. “Spiders. How am I supposed to know?”

“ _Dementors_!” hissed Bragrak. “More than anything! And Giants are a Dementor’s favourite prey! They will travel for huge distances in search of a tribe of Giants. The Giants here are angry because they dislike staying in one place with Dementors nearby. It’s a huge risk for them. But they agreed to meet you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because we believe you won the dagger from Gisull,” said Bragrak. “We believe its allegiance is now to you. As if it were a humankind wand. Because you took it from her.”

“What? What’s this got to do with Dementors?”

“Lord Voldemort gave the Giants the Demmy Slicer to defend them against Dementors…”

“The _what_?”

“Demmy Slicer. That’s what the Giants call Voldemort’s dagger,” said Bragrak. “Dementors are Demmys to them. Voldemort gave them the dagger before the final battle, and summoned a Dementor, and Gisull killed a Dementor with it! And because of that, the Giants swore to follow him!”

“ _Killed_ a Dementor? With a _dagger_? You can’t! It was a trick!”

“No! It is no trick! Lord Voldemort put a powerful spell on the dagger, and it worked! Not only on the Dementor that Voldemort summoned, but a cloud of them at the battle, which Gisull killed as well. It was a miracle! But then she was killed…”

“And the dagger stopped working?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” said Ginny, icily. “So the Giants want to kill me, to get the… the Demmy Slicer’s allegiance back.”

“No!” said Bragrak angrily. “Only humans murder each other like that! The Giants have learned, and the Goblins and others, that murder leads to more murder! Humans cover this world like flies, but there are so few of the other magical races left! Goblins and Giants and Elves, and Hags, and… No, no more killing, or we will be gone entirely.”

“You could make an exception,” pointed out Ginny, “If it got the Dementors off your backs.”

“I swear you will be unharmed,” said Bragrak, earnestly. “The Giants have sworn to me, too. They beg your help. Firstly, to eradicate the Dementors who threaten the Giants, and us. And then to work with them, to find a way of transferring the Demmy Slicer back to Giant ownership.”

“I will need to ask our Headmistress,” Ginny said helplessly.

“Go ask,” he said. “I will wait here.”

She backed away from him uncertainly, then twisted back to the castle. She found McGonagall eventually, in a third-year Transfiguration class. McGonagall beckoned her into the room, impatiently.

She approached McGonagall’s desk uncertainly. “His name is Bragrak,” she began, trying not to be overheard. Two Gryffindor boys were sitting close by, staring at her in interest. “He’s a…

“Goblin,” finished McGonagall.

“Yes. He wants me to go with him,” Ginny continued.

“What?”

Ginny did her best to explain what Bragrak had told her. McGonagall stared at her in amazement. 

“So how does this Goblin know _you_?”

Ginny realised that McGonagall wouldn’t know the story of the horn dagger. She did her best to explain as quietly and succinctly as possible. 

“And you never thought to mention this?” said McGonagall freezingly when she had finished. “To anyone?”

“No,” said Ginny, glaring at the two Gryffindors, who seemed to have heard every word, despite her best endeavours.

“And you’re certain the Giants are back in possession of this dagger?” asked McGonagall.

“We were in a hurry, but pretty sure, yes.”

McGonagall gazed thoughtfully over her class, who seemed to have given up Transfiguring their spiders and were all staring at Ginny. Did they all have bat ears here, and nothing better to do?

“So just you?”

“He says I can take a companion,” said Ginny. “I don’t know if that worries me more or less.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” said McGonagall, crisply. “You’re not going anywhere. And neither is anyone else!”


	22. The Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

Ginny was unable to budge Professor McGonagall.

“But he’s waiting for me out there!” she tried at one point.

“He’ll get bored eventually,” said her Headmistress. “And he cannot be trusted! Can’t ye _see_ that? In the circumstances, _nobody_ can be trusted! There’s too much at stake! Now, I will need to consult with the Ministry over this. I wish you’d mentioned this sooner! I need to see Mr Filch and seal the castle entirely! No-one goes in or out! I am seriously displeased, Miss Weasley! Get…”

Ginny didn’t even wait for the rest of the sentence, and stomped out of the room.

 _I should have just gone with Bragrak_ , she told herself in fury. _Then and there. Like Harry would have done_. Of course, _Harry_ always had his magic cloak and his magic map to help him, and Hermione and Ron, too, and Hagrid…

Hagrid wasn’t in his hut, or his garden. She found him eventually on the edge of the Forbidden Forest with a seventh-year Care of Magical Creatures class, surrounded by a pack of yapping Krups. Emerald and Arjun were both there, and turned to stare at her in interest, while the Krups continued to jump up and lick their hands. Ginny waved to them distractedly as she pushed her way through the animals to reach Hagrid.

“’Lo, Ginny,” said Hagrid. “You all righ’?”

“I need to ask you something,” said Ginny.

“About Krups?” asked Hagrid, patting all the little animals he could reach.

“No,” said Ginny, squirming to avoid the wet noses snuffling at her calves. “I need your help…” Her voice dried then. How could she ask Hagrid to break the rules? But something made her press on. “Like you used to help Harry,” she said.

She was too late already. Hagrid’s brows gathered over his beetle eyes. “Yeh c’n stop there,” he said, sternly. “I c’n see where yeh comin’ from. No, Ginny. If yeh have to break the rules, don’ drag me inter it!”

“But I…”

“Yeh haven’t bin to see me all year. I notice. I thought as ‘Arry’s friend, it would have bin a _courtesy_. An’ bein’ Head Girl ‘n all. But no. P’raps yeh too busy. Yeah, I c’n understand that. But I used to help ‘Arry as a _frien’_. Shouldn' ha' done it, but I did. But I’ve learn’ m’ less’n now. I can’t help yeh!” He turned to the rest of the class, and she could see he was angry. “Righ’, you lot!” he shouted at them. “ _Someone ‘_ as ter put these Krups away, so I’d be _grateful_ if yeh let me get on with meh job. Back to the castle, the lot o’ yeh!”

Ginny had rarely been so embarrassed. Her face was hot as she turned away, and she wanted to kick the yapping animals out of her path as she tried to avoid the stares of the class and storm off. She was too angry even to Apparate, which gave the others the opportunity to follow her.

“Ginny!” Arjun’s voice. “Wait up! What’s happening?”

“ _Nothing_!” snarled Ginny over her shoulder. She could hear his steps behind her as he hurried to catch up, and then his hand on her arm. She shook him off and turned on him. “Leave me alone!” she said in his face. He looked startled and upset. Emerald was close behind him now, aggravating her further.

“Hey! It’s OK!” said Arjun. “You can tell us…”

“Fine!” snapped Ginny. “Fine! Somebody needs some help, but I’m not allowed to give it! I’m effing stuck in here! OK? Are we clear now?”

“What are you talking about?” asked Emerald, in puzzlement.

Ginny made herself calm down enough to explain about Bragrak, and the Giants, and the Demmy Slicer.

“So what’s the problem?” asked Emerald.

“I can’t get out of here!” snarled Ginny. “I was hoping Hagrid would look the other way when I left the grounds, but he had to go all pious on me…”

“So wait until it’s dark,” said Emerald, patiently.

“We’ll be locked in the castle when it’s dark!”

“Locked?” said Emerald, “Is that all?”

“These aren’t Muggle locks!” railed Ginny. “They’re magic!”

“Well, excuse me for breathing,” said Emerald, “But have you ever taken a look at the Entrance Hall door lock? Yeah, it may be _locked_ by magic, but the actual mechanism is Chubb, nineteenth century, I reckon, and it even has a keyhole. I reckon we can slip out of here whenever we want.”

“This is amazing,” whispered Arjun fervently in the gloom of the Entrance Hall as Emerald inserted a thin piece of metal into the front door lock. “It’s like Potter and Weasley and Granger all over again. And we’ve still got a Weasley… I guess you’re Hermione, Emerald, as you’re the clever one. So that makes me Potter! Anyone needs a hero, let me know!”

“If you shut up,” said Emerald, “I might be able to hear this lock.”

Arjun fell silent, but was unable to stop fidgeting. But it didn’t take Emerald long: There was a faint click, and she was reaching out to the huge door handle. The door swung open in silence, and they could feel the chilled breeze. “Thanks, Dad,” muttered Emerald.

“Look,” said Ginny. “Thanks, but I don’t think you should leave the castle! It’s too risky…”

“You’re going, aren’t you?” pointed out Arjun. “Then so are we.”

“I didn’t pick this lock just for you,” said Emerald.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never done time,” said Emerald. “But this place has been too near to that all year. I need to get out, OK?”

“Me too,” said Arjun. “We’re not going back.”

“But this is dangerous…”

“We heard,” said Emerald.

“Well, I need to hurry,” said Ginny, cross and worried at the same time. “Bragrak’s probably left by now.” She pulled out her wand and lit it.

But the Goblin loomed out of the darkness as they reached the main gate. He took a step back when he realised there were three of them. “Why two?” he asked.

“They both wanted to come,” said Ginny, sick of arguing.

“You need one,” said Bragrak. “Not two.”

“Two or the deal’s off,” said Ginny, shortly.

He looked at each of them in turn. He had very heavy eyebrows, Ginny realised. He turned and walked away. “We should hurry,” he said over his shoulder.

Ginny raised her own eyebrow at the other two, and followed Bragrak.

“Can we Apparate there?” she asked him.

“No,” said the Goblin.

“No? So how long will it take to get there?”

“Perhaps two hours,” he said.

She looked over her shoulder to see if the others following had heard this. Arjun shrugged. Emerald merely raised a sculpted eyebrow.

The other two didn’t catch up for some reason, so it continued to be Bragrak, then her, then the other pair. Bragrak was silent, she had nothing to say, so she could hear clearly the occasional conversation of the other two. Such as it was.

“Yep, I wanted to get out of the castle too,” Arjun started. “Been too long.” Emerald didn’t reply. 

“Lucky the rain’s stopping,” he tried next, and she didn’t answer that either.

“It must be good having your sister here,” he tried next. “At Hogwarts, I mean. My brothers didn’t get in. They go to the same school as each other. A Muggle one.” Silence. “Do you have any other sisters?”

“If this is your idea of a chat up,” said Emerald, “Don’t bother.”

They were walking uphill now. The clouds had cleared, the moon was out, and they could see in front of them a range of tall hills, or low mountains. Ginny was hoping the path they were following led to the saddle between the two peaks ahead of them. Then she had to keep her eyes on the ground just ahead of her and ignore the distance in front of her. The Goblin, shorter than her, was having no trouble marching up the sheep track they were following. Emerald and Arjun had caught up, so maybe she was the slowest here. The thought didn’t please her, but she didn’t have the reserves to hurry.

The saddle was a lot further away than she’d thought, and no sooner had they reached the lip she could see a further, higher, saddle beyond. Her face was chilled by the cold wind, and her lungs hurt in the chilled air.

Bragrak stopped and waited for them to catch up, which was a relief.

“You will need to be quieter now,” he said. “No sudden moves. And don’t look at their eyes. They are unhappy at the moment. They will be quick to anger.” He walked on up the hillside, and they followed.

This time the saddle was a sharp-edged ridge, and beyond was a bowl, surrounded by a curtain of hills. The bowl was half a mile across, perhaps, and spotted with Giants, disturbingly large. Two of them were on their feet, but most of them were sprawled on the dark ground of the bowl, in groups of two or three. Ginny counted quickly, and came up with thirty, plus or minus. 

“You must stay here,” said Bragrak, pointing in turn to Arjun and Emerald. He gestured to Ginny. “She comes with me.”

Neither looked very happy with this. “It’s OK,” said Ginny, not sure herself.

Bragrak led her down the slope into the bowl, and they approached a group standing next to the only tree for miles around. She turned around briefly and could just see Emerald and Arjun outlined against the lighter sky.

“Silence,” said Bragrak curtly. Ginny was conscious of the Giants’ eyes on her, but could gain no idea of their feelings. Were they really friend, or foe?

And were they always this silent?

The two Giants they approached were huge, and about the biggest here, as far as she could judge. She’d seen Grawp up close, and Gisull, of course, and other Giants in the distance, but hadn’t grasped the scale of them until now, as they loomed large in the firelight. These weren’t as tall as The Burrow, but they would have been able to stare into her second-floor bedroom window without any trouble.

Bragrak began talking in an unknown language. The Giants seemed to ignore him at first, but then they were turning towards him and growling. Annoyance or replying? Bragrak spoke again, and reached his hand out to grip Ginny’s forearm. It was an effort not to pull her arm out of his grasp, or tell him to stop. 

With no warning, one of the Giants pulled out a dagger, and Bragrak had to hold fiercely onto her arm to stop her backing away. Were they going to try it out on her?

The conversation – if that was what it was – continued for several minutes. Ginny could still see Emerald and Arjun standing further up the hillside. Arjun gestured his uncertainty. She could only shrug at them.

A huge hand grabbed her free arm, and Bragrak let go. The Giant with the dagger was holding onto her now.

“Here!” she said, unhappily. 

The dagger in the Giant’s other hand was waving in front of her face. 

“Stop struggling,” said Bragrak, savagely.

“What have you done?” she yelled at him. “You conniving little…”

“Quiet!”

“No!” she shouted. She continued to struggle.

“Listen!” said Bragrak, urgently. “They won’t hurt you! They want to give you the dagger!”

“In the front and out the back?”

“No! To help them!”

Ginny’s arm was aching furiously by now where the Giant was holding it.

“Take the dagger!” urged Bragrak. “He is giving it to you, so you can protect them!”

In desperation Ginny reached out for the dagger in the Giant’s other hand. As soon as she’d put her hand on it, the Giant released her arm, and she fell back from him. 

“Now what?” asked Ginny, helplessly. “Do I have to stay with them?”

“Wait,” said Bragrak. Then he was saying something incomprehensible to the Giants, and they were roaring back. He turned to her urgently and waved his hand at the tree next to them. “Set fire to the tree!” he demanded.

“What?”

“The tree! Use your wand and set it on fire!”

“Why…?”

“To attract the Dementors! Dementors are attracted to fire!”

“Really?”

The Giants were roaring to each other, distractingly.

“What if it doesn’t work?” asked Ginny unhappily. “What if the dagger doesn’t work?”

“Then you and your friends Apparate away,” said Bragrak. “And the Giants will run. They can usually run fast enough to escape.”

“ _Usually_? And what about you?”

Bragrak shrugged. “I will run too,” he said. “I’m not as fast as a Giant. But if I am lucky, I’ll escape.”

“If you’re _lucky_?” asked Ginny in amazement. “What’s in this for you?”

He looked furious. “A human always asks that! Do I have to gain, to risk my life? Does a soldier expect a reward?”

“Soldiers get paid…”

“Enough to risk their lives? No! _Set fire to the tree_!”

In desperation Ginny pulled out her wand. The Giants about her roared and stepped back. She pointed her wand at the tree and shouted “ _Incendio!”_ The tree erupted in flame, and the Giants’ roars were deafening now.

“How long…?” she asked Bragrak, backing away from the heat of the burning tree.

“Now put your wand away!” urged Bragrak. “You must not use its magic! You must use the dagger!”

“What if the dagger doesn’t work?”

“Only then you can use your wand,” said Bragrak. “That will be the signal for us to flee!”

“I need to tell my friends,” said Ginny realising.

“Of course. But do not let them approach. The Giants would be angry.”

“But shouting’s OK?”

“Yes. Hurry!” Bragrak’s eyes were searching the horizon, restlessly.

Ginny did her best to yell to Emerald and Arjun and explain the situation. 

Emerald looked uncertainly from Ginny to Arjun. “Shouldn’t we come and help you?” she asked.

“No! Let me try the dagger first,” Ginny repeated. “If it doesn’t work, get out of here!”

“What about you?” asked Emerald.

“I mustn’t use my wand,” said Ginny. “Sort of good faith for the Giants.”

“This is crazy,” said Arjun. “Get away from there!”

“No!” Ginny shouted again. “This might be my fault! Because I took their dagger! Just Apparate if…”

“ _Look_!” shouted Arjun at the top of his voice. The opposite lip of the bowl was clearly visible in the moonlight, and a black stain was rising above it.

“So quick,” said Ginny quietly to herself, in horror. She fingered the dagger nervously. Would this work?

The Giants were on the move: They were standing, and the ones between the Dementors and her were hurrying uneasily away from the Dementors, and coming in her direction. She realised she could be crushed as she stood there, and her hand went uncertainly towards her wand in her pocket. _No!_ she told herself. _No wand until it’s too late._

She held the dagger out in her hand. Should she be hiding it? The Giants were upon her, then streaming past her, on either side, and she turned in panic. Were Emerald and Arjun OK? The pair of them were still standing there, yards apart from each other, but the Giants were slowing now, turning to stare at the black stain pouring towards them.

 _Could_ you kill a Dementor? Surely Voldemort could, if anyone could.

The cloud of Dementors was an arrow now, diving down towards the Giants, and the Giants were yelling. _They’re going to stampede_ , Ginny told herself. _Are the other two ready to dodge them?_

The Dementors had chosen their pray. One of the smaller Giants now had a cloud of black around his head, and he was screaming. Ginny was running now, towards the victim. She had the dagger upraised in her hand, but with a sick feeling she realised the Dementors were too high to reach with the dagger. She hammered on the victim’s thigh, as high as she could reach, and she was shouting at him to get down, to lie down so she could reach his attackers. But his screams were louder than hers.

Another Giant was running in her direction. Did he think she was attacking the Giant? Her voice dried in her throat, as the running Giant’s huge hand came down and swept her out of the way, and the Giant cannoned into the victim.

Ginny hit the ground hard, the dagger still in her hand, but she made herself turn over to see. Both Giants were lying on the ground now, and a cloud of black formed around each of their heads. She had to get up…

She pushed herself to her feet. There was something wrong with her right leg, and she could only limp towards the nearest Dementors. With her teeth bared in a snarl, she tried to stab the nearest Dementor. And another. And another. That strange thudding sound! The Dementors were launching themselves backwards, and the dark cloud was dispersing. Ginny twisted around, and made for the other fallen Giant, and stabbed at its attackers, repeatedly, desperately, while the Dementors pulled back, making their strange thudding cry.

The sky was darkening once more. The Dementors’ cry was less now, and there were bigger clouds of Dementors around each victim’s head. She stabbed in desperation, but the Dementors were no longer fleeing. Their hoods were coming down.

“No!” she screamed. “It isn’t working!” She kept trying, stabbing at the Dementors, trying to drive them back, but the two victims were no longer moving.

There were ear-splitting screams all around her now. The rest of the Giants were panicking, and she could see them running, out of the bowl.

“Emerald!” she screamed. “Arjun!” But her cries could not be heard above the shrieks of the fleeing Giants. She had to stop the Dementors. She reached for her wand, and was shouting _“Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patronum! Expecto Patronum!_ ” Her silver rhino was there now, dwarfed by the Giants, and her heart lifted, but there were too many Dementors. She’d failed. The rhino cleared an area around one of the fallen Giants, but then they were descending again.

Something huge crashed into her, and she went flying, amidst a flurry of huge running limbs, as the remaining Giants ran for their lives, and souls. Her head hit a rock…

By the time she came around, the bowl was still. A mere handful of Dementors were clustered around the head of one of the two – no, three – sprawled Giants, but as she watched they flew upwards, and arrowed over the edge of the bowl.

Her leg was in agony. Her head hurt, too, but it was her leg that made her cry out as she tried to move it. It looked strangely alien as it lay on the ground, not like a leg should, and she decided she must have broken it. 

She couldn’t see Emerald or Arjun. She needed their help. She pushed her torso upwards so she could see better, and her leg screamed its unhappiness. It took several attempts to breathe after that, and then she could look around. She could see a fourth sprawled Giant now, in a hollow in the ground, twitching. 

She had to find the others. The agony had to take second place as she dragged herself across the ground, past strange shaped stones and other unrecognisable items that must be the Giants’ possessions. She could see the nearest Giant’s face now. No, there was no doubt, and there was a huge difference between death and soullessness. Death had a dignity, somehow, some imprint of the departed owner, but there was something hideous about this figure as it twitched on the ground, with its random moves and its blank Inferi-like stare. Instinctively she pushed herself away from the horror, towards the edge of the bowl where Emerald and Arjun had stood. Were they running, still, with the other Giants? She had to know.

Beyond the Giant was a small crumpled figure, to her horror. When she got closer she realised it was Bragrak. No hideous soullessness here. Bragrak was dead, his eyes staring and his body mangled and blood-spattered. Whether the Giants had killed him in retribution, or simply smashed him to the ground in their frenzy to escape, she couldn’t tell. 

“Sorry, Bragrak,” she said. She felt guilty, then. She had helped caused his death. She had failed to stop the Dementors. And then the Giants had panicked, and killed him. “Sorry,” she said again.

But she couldn’t see the other two. They had to be all right. They must have Apparated back to Hogwarts by now, and be wondering why Ginny hadn’t joined them. She hoped they’d hurry up and come back, because it was agony, crawling across the ground like this. 

The edge of the bowl grew ever steeper. Hadn’t she merely walked down into the bowl on the way down? She’d barely noticed the slope. Was this the edge now? Would she able to see the fleeing Giants still? The cloud of Dementors seeking them? More fallen Giants?

The ground was more level now, to her relief.

There was a bloody heap ahead of her. Small, smaller than a Giant. Wasn’t that a Hogwarts robe?

Arjun lay in a sprawl of limbs and robe and blood. His soul was intact, she could only hope, but he was dead. His body was smashed to unrecognizability. Ginny guessed a Giant’s foot had crushed the life from him. But she could recognise his face, his colouring, his unmoving brown eyes. There was no mistake.

 _I caused this_ , she told herself. _I failed._

But what about Emerald? She wanted to give up then, because everything was agony, her leg, her head, her heart, her soul. _Just stay here_ , something told her. _You’ve tried, and you’ve failed_.

But she was dragging herself up the hill once more. The ridge raised to a stony point ahead of her. If she could reach there, she told herself, she could satisfy herself that Emerald had escaped. Then she could rest, she could stop.

There was another Giant here, quivering horribly like the last, and squeamishly she bent her path to avoid it. Beyond it was another small shape. It’s nothing, she told herself. It’s not…

Emerald lay crumpled against a boulder. Her eyes were closed, and she hadn’t received the dreadful damage that Arjun had. And she wasn’t twitching, horribly. But the terrible wound to her abdomen made Ginny cry out in fear and horror. She pulled herself near enough to touch her. Was she still alive? Was that warmth, still? She shoved her, gently, then not so gently. Emerald couldn’t be dead! Not Emerald!

She gripped Emerald’s shoulder, and shook her in desperation. The slightest groan. Another. She hadn’t imagined it. Emerald was still alive. 

She had to tell someone. She’d assumed Professor McGonagall, or somebody from Hogwarts, would be looking for them. But they wouldn’t know where to find them, would they? _A Patronus. I have to send a Patronus._ She groped in her pocket for her wand, then groped again.

Her wand was missing. There was no fragment of it in her pocket, so hopefully it was intact, somewhere. But where? She couldn’t remember where she’d come from, or the path she’d followed. There was nothing she could do, nowhere she could go.

The light was failing now. The thick clouds were gathering, the mountains surrounding her were fading into non-existence, leaving only grey gloom. Somehow she was back at Hogwarts, in the grounds after the battle, next to the dying girl _._

 _I never discovered her name_ , she told herself.

“Madam Pomfrey’s coming,” she said presently to the still figure. “Just hang on…”

_Who is she? A stranger? A friend? Does it make a difference, when she’s dying?_

The girl stirred, suddenly, to her surprise. 

“Are you OK?” Ginny asked, stupidly.

“Oh, yeah, fine,” said Emerald’s voice, but in a weary way that told Ginny it was a silly answer to a stupid question. 

_I know her name now_ , Ginny thought disjointedly. _This is Emerald, she’s my friend and I let her down, and I’m in a valley with some Giants, their souls stolen. And we’re on our own here._

“There aren’t…” Emerald winced, stopped speaking, then resumed. “There aren’t any fit young men around here, are there?”

 _What’s she talking about?_ If Ginny strained her neck, she could just see Arjun’s sprawled body, in the distance. “No,” she said.

“Typical,” said Emerald. “I don’t suppose…” She stopped, and Ginny’s heart raced. “…You’d mind holding my hand instead?” asked Emerald.

“Instead of a fit young man?” asked Ginny. “I suppose not.” Emerald’s hand was gritty with dirt, worryingly limp and chilled. 

It was very quiet. There was no breeze, or anything. The silence played with her mind, so sometimes she was in the bowl in the mountains, sometimes near the Forbidden Forest, and in the darkness Emerald’s features became the Ravenclaw girl’s, and then Emerald’s again.

Was Emerald unconscious? Dead? It seemed unkind, somehow, to start searching round officiously for a pulse.

The girl’s hand shook suddenly, and feebly squeezed hers. “Ah…!” said Emerald. “Really hurts… so much…” She was almost crying. Surely Emerald wouldn’t cry. “How about one of those spells of yours to stop it hurting?” she said next. “Know one of those?”

“No,” said Ginny, helplessly.

“Totally…” She stopped and squeezed Ginny’s hand for a second. “Useless... Couldn’t you have lied? Said… Fixius upius? Something like that?”

“Fixius upius,” Ginny said, lamely.

“Better,” said Emerald. Then she was squeezing her eyes shut and compressing Ginny’s hand. Ginny could feel the shaking in Emerald’s hand. “No… Dad’s going to be cross,” she said, more faintly. “Joining him early like this.”

“What happened to your dad?” Ginny asked curiously. Was that a tactless question?

“Failed business venture,” said Emerald, very quietly now. Had Ginny misheard? Was Emerald wandering?

“What do you mean? Emerald?”

There was silence for a while. Then Emerald stirred once more. “What?” she said.

“About your dad.”

“Oh… Yeah. Well, he entered into a new line of business, see…” Ginny could hardly hear her. “…But he didn’t have sufficient collateral to pull it off.” She moaned. “Oh, Jesus… Said collateral being banged up on the… Isle of Wight for aggravated assault… And the competition nailed him for it. Bit harsh, but that’s business… Ow. Ow. _Ow_ …” 

She was hurting Ginny now, she was squeezing so hard, but Ginny couldn’t tell her to stop. “I’m sorry,” Ginny said, inadequately. 

“Saw it happen,” said Emerald. “Seen it before, too. I remember…” She trailed off, and there was a long silence. Something moved, a few yards away, and Ginny’s heart was in her mouth. She twisted around to look, and her leg was in agony, but she couldn’t make any sound, because the girl was dying. It must have been a small animal. 

There was a hand still in hers. The dying Ravenclaw’s? It didn’t feel like Emerald’s hand now. Should she let go?

The figure stirred and spoke, quietly, in Emerald’s voice. “I remember turning up at Hogwarts, and seeing these horrible animals, like dead horses moving, and nobody looking at them. Remember thinking, these guys are all…” She was silent and still then, and Ginny didn’t know what to do. Then Emerald moved again, and spoke. “…Stupid. Only see what they want to. Didn’t really believe, see. Thought it was all pretend. Didn’t realise they couldn’t see…” There was a long pause, but Emerald was squeezing her hand, her muscles quivering.

“…Thestrals… because they hadn’t seen…” Her hand slackened, frighteningly. “…Seen somebody cough it.”

“Was that your Dad?” asked Ginny. She could see the animal now. A Kappa. Of course. Battlefield vermin… Ginny searched around for a stone and lobbed it at the gruesome little animal. It scuttled sideways, opened its mouth aggressively at Ginny but then scurried away, disappearing over the edge of the bowl.

“No,” croaked Emerald. “That was… later. My aunt Daisy. Silly cow thought she could play both ends, and Dad… Dad had to show her she couldn’t. She wasn’t really me aunt, see, but…” Emerald’s speech trailed off once more.

There was silence then. Even the Kappa had disappeared.

Suddenly Emerald spoke: “Enjoyed playing the good guy…” she said, breathless, and then she was silent.

When would Madam Pomfrey find them?

Would she know where to find them? Where were they? 

She didn’t even know the girl’s name. She needed to ask her.

“Cavalry haven’t arrived, have they?” said Emerald’s voice after a while. She sounded even weaker, to Ginny’s anguished regret.

“Cavalry? I don’t think so,” said Ginny.

“Look after Ruby,” said Emerald, suddenly. “Dad’ll kill me all over again if something happens to...”

“She can look after herself,” said Ginny, comfortingly.

Emerald turned her head and stared vaguely in Ginny’s direction. Could she still see? “Too like Mum,” she said presently. “Has to be told. Dad said I was more like him oh Jesus oh Jesus…” Her words were squeezed out of her in jerks. She was dragging at Ginny’s hand, and her face was screwed with effort. 

She was silent then, for some time. _This is Emerald_ , Ginny told herself _. You can’t run away, to a different place, a different girl. This is your fault._

Emerald was stirring, panting. “Oh, no… Ah…”

Her hand went slack on Ginny’s. “Don’t let go,” she murmured. Ginny squeezed Emerald’s hand as hard as she could.

More silence. Was there no wind, or anything else? Had everything stopped?

She waited for Emerald to stir once more, but she never did. Because her hand hurt so much, she had to stop squeezing Emerald’s after a while, feeling guilty, but it was probably too late by then.

Another long wait, and her fingers were stiff and cold as she unwound them from Emerald’s. She didn’t know what to do, so she laid Emerald’s hand on her chest, and pulled her other hand up to join it. There was a lot of blood on her own hands, sticky now, but she had no way of washing it off. She found she couldn’t say goodbye to Emerald, or anything like that. Perhaps she was having a good laugh with Arjun now. Or her Dad. She mustn’t cry, though. Emerald wouldn’t have liked that.


	23. The Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

The Kappas came back, and she ran out of stones to throw at them, but she didn’t have the strength of will to move to find some other stones. Scaly hands would touch her, and she would jerk and cry out, and they would scuttle away from her. But at last some different scavengers arrived to disturb the bodies, and her.

“This one’s gone as well… Oh, this is terr’ble.” Deep, rough, familiar tones. 

“Do you see any pupils?” A distant voice.

“No… Wait! Something up here…” Heavy steps, Giant-like. It was Hagrid, of course. Her heart was like a stone. He would never forgive her, for letting the Dementors take his kind. She could hear his heavy breathing close to her.

“Oh, no… Pr’fessor? Over ‘ere!” A huge hand pawed her. “Ginny? You aw’ri’?”

She tried to breathe, to form words, to tell them to leave her, to forgive her, but rough hands were lifting her, draping her over something else… no, someone else… She was twisting, and it hurt so much.

“Poppy?” A loud voice, close by. “Poppy! Help! Quickly!” Gentler hands now, but still agony, still tearing her apart. A keening sound, one she was making. Something was being pressed against her mouth, something hard, bitter-tasting, and the darkness around her grew deeper, drinking at her…

Her recuperation was long and difficult. It wasn’t her injuries, or the physical pain. Madam Pomfrey shielded her from those, but had nothing to shield her from the mental torture. Ginny wished Professor McGonagall would shout at her, and blame her, because that would have made things easier, somehow, but the Headmistress said nothing. Ginny could see her mouth tighten, sometimes, while the words were kept inside. 

She didn’t have to speak to Arjun’s parents, although she could hear their voices – their questions, their tears – but so distantly she couldn’t be sure whether they existed outside her head. But she had to explain to Ruby, and that was a torment. Ruby had never said much, and she said less now, but her eyes were full of despair and questions, and Ginny couldn’t adequately answer the latter, and wanted to run from the former. Ginny has always been the youngest, but she tried to be an older sister to Ruby, not as a replacement for Emerald, but as a shoulder for her sorrow, and she knew she was failing, like she’d failed at everything else. Fred had died, and Tonks had died, and she’d failed to keep Harry, and Emerald and Arjun had died, and the Giants had lost their souls and died as well, in their panicked stampede.

She had tried to resign her prefecthood, so she could flee some of her failures, but at that point McGonagall broke her silence.

“Resign? No,” she’d snapped. “The school has already lost two prefects. How would that help? No. Your job is to make sure we don’t lose any more. Tell everybody where you went wrong!” There was such anger in her voice, and Ginny flinched.

Ginny knew she didn’t deserve any sympathy. And she knew that Professor McGonagall was blaming herself every bit as much as she blamed Ginny, but there was plenty left over for her Head Girl. McGonagall came each evening to see her in the hospital wing, tired out from a long day fighting with parents, with the Ministry, with almost everyone, and inevitably her frustration and anger overflowed, and she ranted endlessly to Ginny, who had caused all this. And Ginny somehow preferred that honesty, and had neither the energy nor the self-belief to stop her.

Even her parents, when they came to see her, were overwhelmed by the thought of the innocent lives she had wasted. They tried to find words, but they could only come up with platitudes, which gave her no absolution.

Angharad stayed away, of course. Their friendship was a long way in the past.

Professor Stonelake, oddly enough, was the visitor she welcomed the most. His chilly lack of emotion wasn’t what she would have chosen, but he would at least question her about the disaster, and his absent-minded and academic air allowed her to escape her emotions, for a time at least.

Sometimes she wished with all her heart that Harry would come to see her, so she could rail at him, for tricking her into thinking that breaking the rules, that doing something, was the right thing to do, because everyone measured results, in the end, but the end for her was two dead pupils, whom she’d so carelessly let die. Sometimes she never wanted to see him again, because he’d tricked her, he’d left her, and she couldn’t bear his judging her.

Either way, Harry stayed away.

“No,” said McGonagall when Ginny was sufficiently plagued by her demons to mention his name to her. “He won’t be coming here. I understand he is in Poland at present, and cannot be released.”

“What’s in Poland?” Ginny had asked, but McGonagall had merely shaken her head, crossly.

It was better and worse when Madam Pomfrey let her leave the hospital wing. Although she couldn’t escape her ghosts, she could hear their voices less now, but avoiding the questioning and condemning eyes of the school was a fresh agony. She tried to hide in her studies, but they held no interest for her now, or even intelligibility. She would swap textbook for textbook, for notes, for library books, but would find herself merely staring at a single page, her mind still full of that night, when she had let so many innocents die.

Michael Corner and Angharad both seemed to delight in persecuting her, Michael by his cruel false kindness, Angharad by blanking her, by her flaunting behaviour. And Ruby by her mask-like inwardness, never speaking, never accusing, never judging, but harder than anyone else to cope with.

The end of term arrived, eventually. Having to engage with the rest of the school, to organise everyone onto the Hogwarts Express so they could travel home for the holidays, was an agony all of its own.

Endless annoyances when they arrived at King’s Cross: missing pupils, missing parents, missing pets and bickering siblings. She had told her parents not to meet her at the station, because she knew they would have to wait around while she performed her prefect duties, and said that she would Apparate home when she’d done. And yet when everyone had eventually left, leaving her with the empty train, she couldn’t pluck up the energy to spin herself home. 

So when a hand touched her shoulder, and she turned, and it was Harry, she could do nothing but laugh, and wrap her arms around him, and kiss him, to his great surprise, and laugh once more. And she didn’t need to explain, or apologise, or justify herself, but just be herself, and that was enough, with the old Harry.

“You should have warned me,” she said, scolding. “I haven’t warned my parents… Isn’t there anywhere else we could go first?” she suggested with another kiss, her hands still on him. 

She was behaving like an idiot, she realised, but she couldn’t help herself, after the horrors of the term.

“Your parents are expecting you,” he said uncertainly. But his arms were still around her, so it was all right, wasn’t it? She laughed once more as she twisted with him, and they were outside The Burrow, and it was good to be home. She pushed open the kitchen door, and she walked into a still life. Her parents were both standing next to the table, stiff and glassy-eyed. Ron was there as well, looking angry, his gaze flicking between Ginny and Harry. Hermione was there too, embarrassed, unable to meet her eye.

“What’s wrong?” Ginny asked, fearfully. “Has somebody died?”

“You already know who’s died, Ginny,” said Ron, angrily. He gestured towards the kitchen table.

“What…?” started Ginny.

On the table was a letter; She looked around at the others, and her mother, silent for once, nodded briefly, so she picked it up and read it.

_Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Dear Mr and Mrs Weasley,_

_I write to you with a heavy heart regarding your daughter Ginny. As Head Boy, I have executive disciplinary powers, and I am also writing on behalf of our Headmistress._

_Hogwarts expects high standards of its prefects, and places weighty responsibilities upon them, and it is inevitable that, for some individuals, the strains of these are too heavy to bear. I regret to inform you that Ginny’s behaviour is currently being reviewed to decide whether she is of suitable material to continue as a prefect._

_There have been several instances where Ginny’s conduct has fallen far short of what is expected of her:_

  1. _She has attacked a number of young students with a Stunning spell, in contravention of school rules;_
  2. _She has carried out a flagrant affair with Draco Malfoy, a known Death Eater, who is also under investigation for crimes against humanity following the recent victory over Lord Voldemort. Ginny has further refused to give up this affair when confronted;_
  3. _She has groomed and seduced a young girl pupil, Angharad Marsh. After the sad death of her parents, Angharad has been in a confused and vulnerable state, and I regret to say that Ginny has taken unpleasant advantage of this;_
  4. _Through reasons which I can only attribute to jealousy, she targeted a new friendship between her fellow Gryffindor, Emerald Balsam, and Arjun Chettiar, of Hufflepuff, and having failed to break up the relationship, in an extreme act of destruction, inveigled the pair of them out of the school, in utter contravention of the Headmistress’s instructions, into the company of a dangerous group of Giants, where both Emerald and Arjun perished, while Ginny escaped unscathed._



_We do not feel that Ginny’s actions in any way can be condoned in a member of this school, and are intolerable in a prefect._

_I am writing to you to make you fully conversant of the facts of the case, as I suspect that Ginny may see fit to misrepresent them to you, and to ask you to support me in urging Ginny to resign from her positions as Head Girl and Gryffindor prefect, which she has hitherto refused to consider, in blind disregard for the feelings of others and the dignity and reputation of the school._

_Please be assured that the school will allow Ginny to remain at Hogwarts until she has sat her exams, on the condition that she endeavours to maintain a reasonable standard of behaviour over her remaining time at the school._

_With very best wishes,_

_Michael Corner_

_Head Boy_

Ginny was filled with anger, frustration and bewilderment, and she fought to keep all of them from her voice and face. “He has no right to send this,” she began, flatly. “He has no more ‘executive powers’ than I do. It’s up to McGonagall, and she has told me not to resign.”

“Because you’ve put her in an impossible position,” said Ron, heatedly. “She has to support her prefects. And are you saying the allegations are true? I’ve heard no denial!”

“Some are true,” said Ginny, striving to remain calm. “Emerald and Arjun are dead, plus several Giants, and that’s partly my fault.” 

“Partly?” returned Ron, hotly. “Who was it who persuaded them to leave the school?”

“I tried to persuade them not to go,” said Ginny. Which she knew was only partly true. “And I’ve never had an affair with Draco. That’s a total invention!”

“Are you saying Michael made it all up?” shot back Ron. “Why would he do that?”

“He’s not making it _all_ up,” said Ginny, annoyed. “He’s got Angharad in his pocket, and he’s added lies to what she’s told him.”

“ _Michael Corner_?” said Ron, shaking his head disbelievingly, magisterially. “No. No way. Michael’s OK…”

“You’ve never gone out with him. Or had to work with him. Ron, he’s a control freak. He’s never forgiven me for dumping him.”

“Two years ago?” shot back Ron, scathingly. “Oh, come on!”

“But you have had an affair with Angharad?” asked Harry. “You haven’t denied that.” He was looking hurt.

“It wasn’t like that!” Ginny said in annoyance. “She was sharing my room last holidays, that’s all! And one night she…” She caught her father’s horrified expression, and dried. “Look! She was the one grooming me! Not the other way round!”

“She’s a year younger than you, Ginny,” said Ron, ponderously, annoyingly.

“You should see her now!” she said in exasperation. “Covered in makeup! Dyed hair! OK, that’s partly down to Michael, I think. And the rumours…” Both her parents were looking shocked now, so she decided not to share the rumours. She looked once more at the letter, partly to save her embarrassment. “Guilty on the Stunning spell. Some toerags in Slytherin took Angharad and Dominic prisoner, and I got angry with them. McGonagall tore me a new… Tore a strip off me for that. Of course, Angharad knew about that one, and I blabbed to her about Draco being in my room…”

The sleeping volcano that was her mother erupted at this point. “ _WHAT WAS DRACO MALFOY DOING IN YOUR ROOM_?” Mrs Weasley shouted.

“I was hiding him, Mum!” she replied, quickly. “After his parents died!”

“After…?” said Mrs Weasley in growing horror. “He was _here_? In your room _here_?”

Hermione tried to say something then, but whether she was excusing herself or supporting Ginny was lost in an immediate explosion from Mrs Weasley. Then Mr Weasley was joining in, and Ron again. When Harry tried to join in, Ginny found herself shouting at all of them. She was forced to retreat to her room, quivering with anger, vowing retribution on Michael Corner. 

Ginny hoped for relative peace the following morning when she appeared for breakfast, but her mother immediately reignited the entire argument. Mr Weasley, who would often support his daughter, was siding entirely with his wife, and Ron was trying to out-parent the pair of them. Her temper remained uncontrollable as a result, and the day became a marathon of screaming matches and boiling silences. 

The mist outside had turned into heavy, chilling rain, so escaping into the garden was equally unpleasant. But she did it anyway. When she was fleeing inside once more, soaking wet, she caught sight of movement in her father’s shed. Hopefully, she stepped inside, expecting to find her father alone, and possibly in a more forgiving mood.

But instead she found Harry. He was sitting astride one of her father’s bicycles. The bicycle looked less outlandish – more believable – like that, but at the same time Harry seemed somehow more alien.

“I always wanted a bike of my own,” he said, not looking up. “Dudley had a series of them, but somehow none of the ones he’d finished with ever came my way. Maybe the Dursleys didn’t fancy giving me the freedom.”

_Why didn’t you back me up?_ she wanted to ask. _You’ve been there. You know what it’s like. You’ve been in trouble, with everyone against you, except me._ She had the sense not to come out with those thoughts, but it was hard to find something else to say, something to bridge the gap between them.

“Missing the old days?” she asked instead. “Were things simpler then?” She tried to keep her tone light, but the way his eyes came up to her – injured, annoyed – told her she hadn’t succeeded.

“They’re on my case too,” he said, irritated. “The Ministry, I mean. It’s like I’m on probation the whole time. They’re still expecting trouble from me.”

“And this is trouble?” she shot back. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“No!”

“It’d be easier if your ex-girlfriend wasn’t a _problem_ too, yeah? Am I dragging you down?”

“You’re not my ex…”

_“Yes I am!_ ” she shouted. “ _If I was a proper girlfriend right now, you’d be on my side!”_

“I am on your side…” he began, annoyed.

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” she snapped. “Seen Cho Chang recently?”

“No!”

“Pastures new, then? Are all the girls after you now? _Oh, Harry, sit down here and tell me how wonderful you are_!”

“You’re the one who’s moved on,” he said, in a surly voice. “Not me.”

“I _told_ you! I explained!”

“Any idea how stupid I’m feeling right now, knowing who you had hidden in your room? In your bed?”

“I killed his parents!”

“Mine are already dead,” he said coldly. “Or had you forgotten?”

She was incredibly angry then. “Oh, we’re back to _that,_ are we? _That_ was nobody’s fault except Voldemort’s! Haven’t you overdosed on sympathy already? When are you going to start feeling sympathetic towards somebody _else_ for a change?”

He was off the bike now, which was falling and crashing to the ground. He didn’t make for her, as she wanted, as she needed, but stormed out of the shed into the angry rain.

She ran to the door. “And don’t bother coming back!” she screamed. “Ever!”

By the time she returned to the house, he’d left. Ginny was blamed for that too, of course.

And by the end of the day, Hermione had left as well, fortunately without incriminating herself into the bargain. Ginny was left entirely unsupported, without even the most dubious of allies.

Bill came to her rescue and invited her to stay with Fleur and him at Shell Cottage. This turned war into loneliness: The pair of them were mostly away during the day, and Ginny spent hours at a time on the shore there, staring at where the mist met the sea - there was no visible horizon - or walking endlessly beside the waves, until her legs ached. At first, she couldn’t go near Dobby’s grave, with its chimes of failure and death, and connections to Harry – failures of a different kind, she decided – but eventually the grave provided a kind of companionship, the sleeping elf below a reassurance, somehow, and the stone and its simple inscription a statement of intent, and forgiveness.


	24. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

The Summer term didn’t start as unpleasantly as Ginny had anticipated. Michael Corner wasn’t on the returning Hogwarts Express, to her relief, although she was left to deal with every trying issue of the journey herself. And it appeared that Corner hadn’t – yet - broadcast his letter to the whole school, so the other pupils treated her as before, although there was still anger in many over the deaths of Emerald and Arjun.

She went to see McGonagall as soon as she reached the school, unsure of her reception, and the Headmistress was no frostier than usual. But when she heard about the letter, she was of little help. 

“Was it on official Hogwarts notepaper?” asked McGonagall.

“No,” said Ginny. “What does _that_ matter?”

“I’ll trust you to be civil,” said McGonagall. “A pupil is entitled to write a letter, and I cannot stop them.”

“Even when he tells lies and gets me in huge trouble with my parents?”

“What lies?”

“I’d rather not say,” said Ginny, unable to meet McGonagall’s eyes.

“Miss Weasley,” said McGonagall patiently. “When Corner returns to the school, he will, I have no doubt, spread these stories far and wide. What stories?”

“That it was my fault Emerald and Arjun died,” said Ginny. “About the Stunning of the Slytherins.”

“A matter of opinion, and the truth,” said McGonagall, matter-of-factly. “Is that all?”

“That I’ve had an affair with Angharad. OK, which is nearly true. But that I had an affair with Draco Malfoy, and that’s a total lie.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“I should suspend you,” said McGonagall.

“But it was a lie…!”

“The Stunning wasn’t a lie. And by your own admission your affair with Angharad wasn’t a lie either.”

“It wasn’t like that! It wasn’t an affair! It was her idea, I just didn’t stop her…”

“Which you should have done. As a prefect of this school.”

“It wasn’t here,” said Ginny, brokenly. “It was at home…”

“That is irrelevant! I am seriously displeased, Ginny! Yet again I have expected you to support me, in your rôle as prefect, and once more you have let me down.”

“Sorry, Headmistress.”

“I have better calls on my time, but I will write my own letter to Mr and Mrs Weasley, and put the record straight. I will describe the letter as a prank, which to all purposes it is. And I will speak to Mr Corner!”

“Thank you, Professor!”

“Now, I expect you to spend every available spare minute of your time revising for your exams. Every spare minute, that is, apart from performing your duties and building bridges with Miss Marsh, and, when he returns, Michael Corner.”

“Where is he? Hasn’t he come back yet?”

“I understand he was staying at the house of another prefect over the holidays, and has succumbed to an infection, which means he is unable to return to school until he is no longer infectious.”

“Another prefect? Do you mean Angharad?”

“Out of my sight, Miss Weasley!”

Ginny hastened to write her own letter to her parents, and asked Pablo to deliver it as quickly as his wings would carry him. The owl was unfazed by the huge distance, which was a relief, as Ginny dared not Apparate home at the moment: McGonagall was expecting her to be either performing her prefect duties or revising for her exams. No sooner had Pablo left than she wished she’d written letters to Harry and Ron as well. And Hermione. _But an Elf Owl isn’t really set up for carrying freight_ , she told herself.

“Have you seen my _Daily Prophet_?” asked Warin Harcourt at breakfast, some days later. He seemed puzzled and annoyed.

“No,” said Polly, shortly.

“So where is it?”

“No idea,” replied Polly. “Maybe there isn’t one today.”

“But I can see one!” insisted Harcourt. “Over there!”

“Allow me,” said a voice over Ginny’s shoulder. A hand appeared and dropped a copy of _The Daily Prophet_ onto the table in front of her.

“Thank you, Michael,” said Ginny, turning to glare at Corner, who was standing right behind her. “You’re back, are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” he said, his annoying smile in place. “Have you seen the news? Fascinating reading…”

She turned away from him in irritation, and her eyes fell on the _Daily Prophet_. Polly’s hand was reaching for the newspaper, and Ginny had to grab her wrist to prevent her taking it.

In the middle of the front page was a photograph of Harry. He was in a crowd of people, but he was accompanying a girl who looked familiar. Her eyes dropped to the caption beneath:

_Harry Potter with Quidditch Chaser Alicia Spinnet, the recent Gdansk Storm acquisition, celebrating her new team’s victory yesterday. The two have recently been seen in each other’s company – are things a-changing?_

“Where’s… Gdansk?” she asked. 

“Poland,” said Warin. “It’s a port.”

_Poland._

“Gdansk Storm crushed the Lisbon Wyverns,” Warin was saying. “They’re looking pretty good these days.”

_So’s Alicia_ , Ginny found herself thinking. She was taller than Ginny remembered, her head above Harry’s shoulder. Her tanned face was reserved, calm, intent on something off camera as she pushed through the crowd. Harry’s eyes were flickering nervously from her to the photographer. He looked uncomfortable.

“I’m sure he was misquoted,” said Polly, anxiously, in her ear. “The _Daily Prophet_ is just playing the Ministry line these days!”

Ginny dragged her eyes away from the photograph to look at the headline, in surprise.

_KEEP MAGIC AWAY FROM NON-HUMANS, SAYS POTTER._

_Harry Potter has come out firmly behind the Ministry of Magic in a statement he made yesterday_ , read the _Daily Prophet_ article _._ “ _It’s our job, as wizards and witches, to protect the other Magic Races,” he said. “We shouldn’t allow them to harm themselves by unlawful access to magic.”_

_His words come as welcome support for the Ministry, in light of an extremist movement, the Order of the Phoenix, who are agitating to give Giants and Goblins more magical rights, in contravention of new Ministry rules._

_Mr Potter was asked whether Ministry protection should be extended further - to Muggles, for example? “No comment,” he said._

“Don’t get angry,” said Polly, unhappily. 

“He’s nothing to do with me!” snarled Ginny. “He can say what he effing well likes! And _see_ whoever he likes too! And I’m not angry!”

McGonagall summoned her later that morning, while Ginny was still seething.

“Another Goblin for you,” said the Headmistress when Ginny reached her study.

“Another…?”

“I was tempted to turn her away, but she says she is Bragrak’s daughter,” said McGonagall, grimly. “After last time, I will be accompanying you to see her. I see the weather is as wet as usual.” She produced a strange and huge umbrella, tucked it under one arm and extended her elbow in Ginny’s direction. “Quickly, please.”

The Goblin’s name was Shorgak. Despite the fur coat she wore, there were no feminine aspects to the Goblin that Ginny could determine, and looked like every other Goblin she had ever met. But the meeting was no more pleasant than Ginny had anticipated.

“My father is dead,” began Shorgak, “And you humans are the cause of it.” The rain dripped down her face, like tears, but her expression was set.

“Miss Shorgak,” said McGonagall frostily, beneath her umbrella. “Your father attempted to save Giant souls using a spell created by Lord Voldemort. For that, he is to be admired, but there was no guarantee of any success. He risked everyone in the process, and caused the death of two humans who were there to help him.”

“My father was a good person…” began Shorgak.

“But not a wise one,” said McGonagall, firmly. “We sympathise with your loss, and trust that _your_ sympathies are with the families of the humans who died as a result of his actions.”

Shorgak was silent. Her eyes darted between McGonagall and Ginny. “If he had been allowed a wand,” she said, “He would not be dead.”

“That would be illegal,” said McGonagall. “Although I am not unsympathetic towards the difficulties that Goblins endure, there is nothing I can do about them.”

Another silence. “Goblins have laws, too,” said Shorgak, eventually. “Laws you humans disregard.”

“Which laws? Are we talking about your property law here? It is unfortunate that our laws clash with yours, but we are bound to obey our own laws where there is a conflict between them.”

“And if I disobey our laws?” asked Shorgak, slowly. “Will you help me then?”

“Help you how?”

The Goblin reached inside her fur coat and produced a hide-covered box. “By our laws, this is ours,” she said. “But in memory of my father, and of the good he tried to do, I offer it to you.”

She held out the box to Ginny.

“To me?” asked Ginny in surprise. There was a strange hook keeping the box shut, which she struggled to unfasten. Inside was the horn dagger.

“The… The Demmy Slicer?” she asked in surprise. “Doesn’t it belong to the Giants?”

“It belongs to the Goblins,” said Shorgak. “It was manufactured by us, so it is ours. The Giants accept this, while humans do not. It is of no use to them, because the human spell on it does not work. They dare not rest because of that. They constantly flee the Dementors.”

“So why give it to me?” asked Ginny.

“In the hope that humans can fix the spell,” said Shorgak. “And redeem the harm they have caused. And remember that I have broken Goblin law to help you, and deserve a return.”

“Deserve what?” put in McGonagall.

“A wand,” said Shorgak.

“No,” said McGonagall. She took the dagger box out of Ginny’s hands and held it out to the Goblin. “We cannot bargain like that!”

Shorgak’s eyes studied them both. “You would have my solemn word that the wand would only be used to save lives, and not take lives, or harm humans in any way…”

“I am sorry,” said McGonagall, shortly. “There will be no deal.”

Shorgak continued to study them both, her arms at her sides. “Keep the dagger,” she said. “Think about what I have said.” She turned and walked down the road, and never looked back.

“Hmm,” said McGonagall. “This is what comes of trying to do favours to Goblins, Miss Weasley. Now, I would appreciate getting out of this rain as soon as possible.”

Ginny took her arm and they spun back to the Headmistress’s study. Ginny turned to go, but McGonagall stopped her.

“A word, Ginny, if I may. Yesterday I omitted to question you further regarding the accusation that you had been… intimate with Draco Malfoy.”

“It’s not true…” hastened Ginny.

“So you said,” said McGonagall. “But on what was the rumour based?”

“Michael was just…” Ginny dried, as McGonagall looked keenly at her.

“It seems unlikely to me that Corner fabricated the rumour entirely,” said McGonagall. “What is the nature of your relationship with Draco Malfoy?”

“Nothing! There is no relationship!”

“Miss Weasley, I have been exceptionally tolerant with you. I have backed you, against the odds and copious advice, I may say, and I think I am entitled to a fair answer. I do not ask out of prurient interest. Mr Malfoy is about to return to this school in the run-up to the exams, and I need to hear there will be no unseemly behaviour between the pair of you. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Headmistress.”

“This school… The entire wizarding world… owes a debt to Harry Potter. I would not like to see his feelings hurt unnecessarily.”

“But we’ve split up… Harry and I…” She couldn’t manage to say any more.

McGonagall looked at her for a frozen eternity, while Ginny’s eyes burned, and she blinked endlessly. 

“You must sort out your relationships, Ginny,” McGonagall said eventually. “I have no interest in either interfering in them, or rescuing you when you muck them up. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Headmistress.”

“Draco arrives late this afternoon. He will be staying in Slytherin, of course. Please let Miss Marsh and Mr Poleworthy know. Have you mended the breech with Angharad yet?”

“I haven’t seen her… Wasn’t she with Michael? I assumed she was still ill.”

“Let me caution you against assuming anything, Miss Weasley,” said McGonagall, drily. “Tread carefully. One could sometimes wish that sixth- and seventh-years were someone else’s problem.” 

Ginny rehearsed her meeting with Draco many times during the afternoon, and was criticised as a result for inattention by both Professor Flitwick and Professor Slughorn. The latter was particularly hard to bear.

“I suspect,” he said with heavy-handed jocularity, “that Miss Weasley is sighing for some lucky person’s affections.” He bent down and inspected her. “Would you care to enlighten us as to whose?” he asked.

Ginny shook her head, in angry alarm. Was she in trouble here, even before Malfoy arrived?

“I need to talk to you,” she found herself saying as soon as she met Draco, throwing her carefully-planned speeches to the winds.

“What about?” he asked, uncertainly. He seemed thinner, she realised belatedly, and nervous. Where had he been since she last saw him? “Can we go inside first?” he added, stepping towards the castle. Although the day was dry, the temperature was still chilly and unwelcoming. 

She put her hand to his arm and stayed him. “No, now…”

She tried to explain about Michael Corner’s letter, and Angharad, and what McGonagall had said. Somehow, she expected him to laugh uproariously, like Ron or Harry would have done, but he merely looked concerned. Frightened, almost. _He’s no hero_ , she reminded herself. _He’s not Gryffindor. He’s someone who let Voldemort and his parents dictate his actions, and never argued._

_But I need his help._

“Do you want me to go?” he asked.

“No!” she said in surprise. “What about your N.E.W.T.s?”

He shrugged, annoyingly.

“Don’t _shrug_ like that!” she snapped at him. “You need these exams! This is your career you’re talking about!”

“Don’t need much for a cell in Azkaban,” he merely said.

“For doing what?” she scoffed. “Being Voldemort’s poster boy?”

He laughed then, briefly. “I always used to wonder what it would be like,” he said, more seriously. “Losing, I mean. I couldn’t see how the Dark Lord could lose, frankly.”

“I don’t think you were alone in that,” put in Ginny, thinking of events a year ago.

“Mmh,” he said. “But I still worried sometimes. It seemed safer being on his side, but what would they do to us, if we did lose? It’s … scary… at the moment. Seriously scary. I mean, what they’ve done to MacNair, for one. And Fenrir. They let me see MacNair. When I was in Azkaban. To scare me, I think, and it worked. I was terrified. They tortured him. Maybe he deserved, it, but… I thought I was in serious trouble then. I thought they’d start on me. And then they just let me go.”

“McGonagall’s doing,” said Ginny, and explained what the Headmistress had said. “So where did you go after they let you go?” she asked then. “Did you go home?”

He shook his head. “Stayed at my old cousin’s house. Keeping my head down.”

“Which cousin?” she asked, curiously.

“Sirius Black,” he said, with a wry smile.

“You mean… _Grimmauld Place_?”

He nodded. “Been some changes since I was last there. But it’s unplottable, so a good place to stay.”

“So who let you in?” she asked, in puzzlement. 

“McGonagall,” said Malfoy, dryly.

She didn’t expect this. “McGonagall? Is she Order of the Phoenix? I didn’t realise…”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Although I wish she could have thought of somewhere else. Not that I wasn’t grateful to her, but it’s not a good place to be on your own.”

It seemed entirely natural to put her hand on his arm. “Draco, I’m sorry…” she said.

“Sorry? Why?”

“Because I did this to you,” she said, simply. “All of it.”

“Keep your ego in check, Weasley,” he said then. “You did nothing. Almost nothing.”

“But your parents…!”

He stepped up to her suddenly and put his hand on her mouth. “Don’t,” he said. He took his hand away and kissed her, to her surprise, but he quickly let go and turned away.

“So,” he said, casually. “What are we doing?”

It was hard to frame words then. “ _Doing_? Getting me into trouble, mostly,” she said eventually. “And I don’t need any help with that.” She could still feel his lips on hers. “And don’t do that,” she said angrily. “You mustn’t do that!”

They walked back to the castle, instead of Apparating. She told herself that was because she didn’t want to touch him, but, more than that, she still needed to talk to him.

He’d heard nothing about Bragrak and the Giants, or the deaths.

“It’s like a prison there,” he said about Grimmauld Place. “It’s about as lonely as you can get. So are you OK?”

“Not really, no,” admitted Ginny, “But I’m alive. Unlike Emerald and Arjun. Did you know them?”

He shrugged. “Not really. But they knew what they were getting into…”

She rounded on him angrily. “ _No_! They didn’t! None of us did! Not even Bragrak! We were just a bunch of idiots with a dream! Not even a dream we really understood!”

“So this Goblin thought a spell would just _transfer_ from one to another?” asked Malfoy. 

Ginny could hear the criticism in his voice. “It’s just a dagger!” she said angrily. “Why shouldn’t it have worked?”

He shook his head. “The Dark Lord needed the Giants, so he put a spell on a dagger for them, but he didn’t give anything away.”

“Meaning what?” she demanded. “Didn’t the spell work? Was it all a _trick_?”

“No,” he said, calmly ignoring her anger. “The spell worked. But only for the Giant he gave the dagger to.”

“And you know all this?” she snapped.

“I was there,” he said. “In the Forbidden Forest, the day before the battle. With my parents, and most of the Death Eaters. The important ones, anyway. And the Gurg, of course. And his wife.”

“Gurg?” She’d heard the term, but couldn’t remember it.

“King Giant. I remember that the Dark Lord was going to give the dagger to him, but the Gurg was saying he wasn’t a lowly warrior – words to that effect - he was the Gurg. So the Dark Lord gave it to her instead. What was her name? Gudrun? And it was a special spell he had to do. He didn’t just hand it over. Then he summoned a Dementor, and the two Giants were about to make a run for it, when the Gurg hit his wife, and she struck the Dementor, and it burst.”

“ _Burst_?”

“It was just fragments, afterwards. Then it was gone. And the Gurg and she were roaring, she was waving the dagger, and we were all good friends. So what happened to her?”

Ginny could only shrug. “No idea. She died. Just outside the grounds. I’ve told you all this,” she added, annoyed.

“Died how? Maybe the Dark Lord changed his mind…”

“So what was this spell?” Ginny demanded.

Malfoy shrugged. “Don’t remember,” he said, casually. “A lot’s happened since.”

“Malfoy,” she said, as calmly as she could, because speaking to him was better than hitting him, “Have you seen what the Dementors have done here? At Hogsmeade? At Hogwarts? To the Giants?”

“No,” he said, annoyed. “Such as what?”

“Such as attacking the school! Which is why we’re _stuck_ here all the time! Plus Hogsmeade! Dozens of souls lost!”

“They’re Dementors,” he said. “It’s what they do. But they move on…”

“They’re still here! See that mist? The Dementors are doing that! We haven’t seen the sun all year!”

“What am _I_ supposed to do about it?” he asked peevishly.

“Do? Just remember that spell!” she said through locked teeth.

“How? It’s nearly a year ago!”

“What _do_ you remember?” she demanded.

“Mostly, the two Giants arguing. The Dark Lord just muttered the spell. He didn’t shout it out, or anything.”

“But you heard him?”

“Yes, but only just…”

Ginny stomped up the path ahead of him, in anger and upset. If only she’d _known_ … Every time she saw Ruby, she apologised to her, but the younger Balsam was starting to avoid her because of that. But what else could Ginny do? Apart from crush Malfoy’s skull and look inside?

“Wait…” she said, stopping on the path, so he could catch up.

“Wait for what?” asked Malfoy, in annoyance, as he reached her.

“What about the Pensieve?” Ginny asked.

“The what?” asked Draco, in confusion.

“Dumbledore had one,” said Ginny, excitedly. “You could store thoughts in it. You used your wand, put your thought in the Pensieve, so you could look at it. And share it!”

“Creepy… Where is it now?”

“McGonagall has it,” said Ginny. “I suppose.”

“Are you going to ask her?” Malfoy didn’t look too keen.

“Yes…! No. I can’t. If she thinks I’m starting all this again, she’ll kill me. Probably literally, this time.”

“Good…”

“I can’t believe how _selfish_ you are!” she railed at him. “You seem OK, and then you say something like that!”

“ _Me_?” he shot back in annoyance. “Didn’t _you_ just reject the idea because McGonagall would _tell you off_?”

“Because she wouldn’t let me! Not because I don’t want my arse kicked!”

“And nor do I,” said Draco, brightly. “Great arse, Weasley. Shame to get it damaged.”

“I’m not in the mood, Malfoy!” she snapped. But she could feel her face getting hot all the same. “Wait! I’m being stupid!”

“Stupid how?”

“What about Legilimency?” she asked, triumphantly. 

He looked disturbed then. Almost frightened. “Read my mind? No. No way.”

“But if we could get the spell back…”

“I don’t want you reading my mind,” repeated Draco. “No chance.”

“ _Why not_? What have you got to hide?” Ginny demanded.

“Plenty, thank you.”

“What? From me?”

“From you as well,” insisted Draco. “We were on opposite sides, remember?”

“This is important…”

“So are my thoughts,” said Draco. 

“You selfish…!”

“Now you’re repeating yourself,” said Draco. “And aren’t you meant to be back in a lesson by now?”

Ginny realised with a start that she must have missed almost an entire Charms lesson by this time. With a moan, she took hold of Malfoy’s arm and spun them both back to the school.

_This isn’t the end of this_ , she vowed to herself.


	25. A Fair Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

Except that Draco stayed away from her. He lurked in Slytherin House most of the time, although she would see him in the library sometimes, with his head down. He never seemed to eat, and stayed away from the Great Hall. 

Whether or not this was because of Michael Corner’s letter she didn’t know, but she was relieved all the same. The passage of time had convinced her that she would win nothing by confronting Corner on the subject, and possibly lose plenty. As she remained Head Girl and a prefect, she felt she had won that round, although he didn’t seem to care either way, aggravatingly. 

Agnes Marlow would tut every time Ginny repeated to her mirror that she wasn’t going to let Corner get to her, as it grew harder each day. Corner rarely had to say anything to her; Just that little smile of his was enough to ruin her whole day, even when she willed herself not to hear his loud remarks. She had her followers, still, which included most of the prefects. Although they would never confront him, or refute his unpleasant allegations, she grew to realise – and appreciate – that they disbelieved most of what he said.

She tried to concentrate on her revision, and ignore the falling sensation when she thought about her forthcoming exams, and how little she had done towards them so far. It was easier, too, to close her mind to the extra work that Corner was dumping on her, than get into a fight with him. Harder was when Harry Potter obtruded into her thoughts, and she had to quell the anger she felt about him. And whenever she found herself gazing at Draco’s white-blond hair in the library, she reminded herself sternly that doing so wasn’t getting her revision done either. 

But how could she persuade Draco to let her see his thoughts? She prevailed on Polly to let her practice Legilimency on her, and Polly put up with the invasion of privacy and the headaches that resulted in a way only a true friend would allow. But how could she persuade Draco? 

“If you could get to Hogsmeade, you could buy some Firewhisky,” was Polly’s favourite suggestion. “Just ask Harry how to get there,” she offered. “Or maybe he would just send you some?”

“Or maybe he’s too busy?” Ginny asked sarcastically. Alicia Spinnet’s face was still in her mind’s eye, and sometimes that reserved expression of hers looked decidedly smug.

But Ginny couldn’t come up with a better alternative herself.

Around all this, she did her best to squeeze in Quidditch practice. She had almost given up on her Beaters, but was encouraged by the progress the Chasers were making. Their improved accuracy was equalled by their tactics, and Ginny had real hope they could win a match, given only a modicum of luck. They were playing Ravenclaw this term, a match which greatly overshadowed the Gryffindor/Slytherin grudge match in her mind, and the minds of her team. Ginny longed to wipe that poisonously smug smile off Corner’s face, more than anything else she could think about. 

Even if they won the match, Ginny was fearful that Ravenclaw would win the House Cup. The final match of the season was Hufflepuff against Slytherin; If Slytherin beat Hufflepuff, even Gryffindor beating Ravenclaw could still give overall victory to Ravenclaw.

News in the _Daily Prophet_ of a Dementor attack on a nearby Muggle village brought her out of her abstraction. There were only two victims, to her partial relief, but she sought out Draco the same morning. She could tell from his resigned expression as he looked up from his books that he knew why she was there.

“We need that spell!” she hissed at him, looking over her shoulder at Madam Pince. “You can’t just let these things happen!”

“It’s too risky!” he murmured. 

“We need to try!” she snarled as quietly as she could. 

“Who else will die this time?” he asked.

“No-one! I’m not going to invite the effing Giants! Just summon some Dementors!”

“How?”

“Just… set fire to a tree. That worked last time, with the Giants!”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Find a bigger tree!”

A shadow appeared across the table. “This is a library,” said Madam Pince freezingly over her shoulder. “You should be setting a good example! Please leave immediately!”

“Make him leave as well!” she snapped to Madam Pince, pointing angrily at Draco. 

“ _He_ isn’t making all the noise,” said the librarian, tartly. “Please leave!”

Ginny found herself physically bundled out of the library, to her fury. 

She hung around the entrance to the library, glaring at Malfoy, until he eventually gave up trying to avoid eye-contact and left his seat to talk to her.

“OK,” he said, heavily. “I’ll do it.”

“ _Seriously_?” she almost shouted in joy. She took hold of his arm, but he shook her off.

“Not now,” he insisted. “This evening, when no-one’s around.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere private,” he said. “What about Firenze’s classroom? That’s not used now, is it?”

“No,” agreed Ginny, in surprise. “OK. After lights out…”

The classroom was still in its pretend-woodland state when they cracked the door open, and despite its disuse smelled freshly of outside. The sky was heavy driven cloud, and the room seemed very dark. They groped their way across the apparent forest floor until they reached a spot between two trees. 

“How about here?” asked Ginny.

“OK,” said Draco, and sat cross-legged on the ground. “Do your worst. Have you practised this?”

“Yes,” said Ginny. “With Polly Newhouse.”

“Any secrets?”

“Yes,” admitted Ginny, “But I’m not telling you those!”

“And who are you going to tell my secrets to?”

“Nobody,” said Ginny in annoyance. 

“But you promise?” persisted Draco. “You tell no-one?”

“Promise what?” asked Ginny, nervously. “What if you’ve killed somebody?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Draco in annoyance. “But I have secrets. Just… stay away from them, OK? Just find the spell, and get out…”

“OK,” said Ginny, apprehensively. Polly’s secrets had seemed to lie on the surface of her mind, and it had been hard to ignore them. There hadn’t been anything too disturbing there, but would that be true for Draco? She picked up her wand, apprehensively.

“ _Legilimens!_ ” she chanted.

There was a resistance at first, of course: Dark flashing images, greyness over all she could see, but then it was as if the clouds had parted, and moonlight was exposing Draco’s mind to her. 

The portrait of Lucius Malfoy, with the horse fidgeting behind him.

Draco standing in a narrow corridor she knew, in the gloom. Of course: Grimmauld Place.

Hurrying after his parents, fleeing along the path out of Hogwarts.

In darkness, with the Sorting Hat’s voice saying “ _Slytherin_!”

Pansy Parkinson, beneath him, her eyes lidded, her mouth self-satisfied… Ginny dragged her mind away from that image as quickly as she could.

Harry, a very young Harry with a hostile expression, on the Hogwarts Express: “I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks.” 

Crabbe screaming as fire burst over him…

In the Forbidden Forest…! But as a near-child, with Hagrid’s dog Fang lolloping alongside him…

Dumbledore, in the Astronomy tower: “Draco, you are not a killer…”

Harry, on a broom, his fingers reaching the Golden Snitch...

Lying in Pansy’s lap, on the train, her fingers in his hair…

A strange door, made of metal, with huge hinges…

Lucius Malfoy, sitting at the great dining table she’d seen, head in hands, unmoving…

An unrecognisable face, bloated hideously. Next to him, Lucius again, intense and desperate. “Is it Harry Potter?” Draco’s own voice: “I can’t be sure...”

His mother, her face cold: “A boy full of hate. But one who loved as well…”

Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest! “He does not need finding,” he was saying. “He will come to me.”

Ginny tried to look around the shadowed landscape, frantically, trying to find more images of the Giants, or the dagger…

That huge metal door again. Strangely, there was a handprint in the middle of the door, of a small hand…

Draco lying in water, writhing in agony, blood staining the water around him…

Professor Snape, lecturing a young Malfoy in Potions. There was Harry, looking very young too.

“I can’t find it!” Her own voice, in darkness. And then Malfoy’s voice in her ear: “You need to focus. The Dark Lord in the Forbidden Forest. With two Giants…”

A Hippogriff, rearing above him, its wing smashing his arm…

Lavender Brown, a look of daring on her face, reaching up to kiss him…

Two Giants! Huge, with trees around them. Was this it? One was holding the Demmy Slicer…

“I’ve found the dagger,” she said. “With the Giants….”

“Look further back,” said Malfoy.

“Can’t _you_ see what Voldemort said?” she asked fretfully. 

“No,” he said. “Not clearly enough…”

Two Giants approaching! They were huge against the trees. A thin, grey-skinned figure in their path. Grunting roars from each Giant. Voldemort saying… something… Was he speaking the Giant language? A Death Eater – It was Dolohov – stepping closer, nervously, holding out a box. Voldemort opening it, taking out the dagger!

More unintelligible words… “Gisull,” said one of the Giants. Then Voldemort, repeating the name. His wand was in his hand. He was muttering, and touching the wand to the dagger. The dagger glowed, briefly.

Ginny was seized with frustration. What had Voldemort said? Had Draco actually _heard_ his words?

Mad-Eyed Moody, his wand in hand, and Draco shrinking from white-haired boy to ferret… Jeering laughs all around him.

Draco, standing white-faced with a wand over a crumpled figure, Voldemort behind him. “You know the spell,” Voldemort was saying. “You know he deserves it. You will obey me…”

Somehow Ginny managed to return to the memory she sought. Here was the image of the Giants as they approached once more. She was closer, now, somehow. The roaring speech. “Gisull…” “Gisull…” That was Voldemort’s voice. “Demenda…” something… “Gisull…”

No! She had to try again! 

Harry: “I think I can tell who the wrong sort are…” His look of hostility…

A breathless Millicent Bullstrode, looking over her bare shoulder…

Dolohov, handing over the dagger… “Gisull…” Gisull…” “Demenda Regis Gisull…” The dagger glowing, briefly…

“Demenda Regis Gisull,” said Ginny, out loud, in triumph. “Does that sound right?”

“Say it again,” said Draco.

“Demenda Regis Gisull…”

“It could be,” said Draco.

That strange metal door again. She wanted to reach her hand out to that small handprint. Her own hand was nearly the same size…

“ _Slytherin…_!”

Buckbeak, smashing his arm…

And she was outside his mind, she was in the forest classroom once more, and he was looking at her, fearfully. “What did you see?” he asked, his eyes wide yet shadowed.

“Demenda Regis Gisull,” she repeated. “I need to write that down… I didn’t bring a quill with me!”

He shook his head, unimpressed, and with the thought she twisted and left him, and she was in her own room, scrabbling on her desk for her quill, and a piece of parchment, and writing the words down. Then back to the classroom, where Draco was still sitting on the floor, his shoulders down in dejection. 

“Demenda Regis Gisull,” she repeated. “That’s right, isn’t it?” she asked fearfully.

“Could be,” he said. “I may have heard what I expected, though. Words like the ones he said.”

“We need to try it,” she said. Her lungs were tight, now.

“Summon a Dementor?” Draco asked. She could read the fear in his eyes.

“Yes… No! See if the dagger glows! Like it did in your memory!”

“Where’s the dagger?”

“In my room…”

Without thought she took hold of his arm and twisted, but instead of finding herself in her room, she was smashed sideways, she was in a strange corridor, and Draco had disappeared.

“Draco!” she cried out in alarm, and Apparated back to the forest classroom. He was still there, but lying on the floor, a twisted heap.

“Draco!” she said again, and knelt next to him. She shook his shoulder, but he didn’t respond. “ _Draco_!” She fumbled for her wand, and said “ _Enervate_!” Suddenly he took in a breath, groaned and tried to turn over.

“Draco! I’m sorry!” she said. “I don’t know what happened!” She felt an utter fool. What had she done wrong?

“Where were you taking me?” he asked thickly. 

“My room…”

“Not allowed,” he grunted. “If you remember.”

Of course! “Wait here!” she said. She twisted to her room, pulled the Demmy Slicer out of her trunk and returned to his side. “Here!” she said. “It’s here!”

She pulled out her wand again. “ _Demenda Regis_ …” she started. She needed to decide who, didn’t she?

“ _Demenda Regis_ Draco Malfoy,” she panted.

And the dagger glowed, briefly.

“No!” said Draco in alarm. “Not me!” He tried to sit up.

“Why not?” she replied, breathlessly. “I can’t do it to myself…”

“It needs to be someone else!” His face was creased with fear.

“Why should it?” she insisted. “Won’t you help? You’ve helped so far…”

“You want someone you can rely on,” he said.

Her hand was gripping his arm. Their faces were very close now. “You,” she said. “I can rely on you. I’ve seen inside your mind! You let me see everything!”

His eyes were terrified then. “Everything?” he said, his voice unsteady. “Everything?”

“There was a vault,” she conceded. “A door in your mind, that was locked. I didn’t see inside that. But everything else! You didn’t hide those things! Harry beating you at Quidditch. You… with Pansy. Things I didn’t want to see, but you let me!”

He stared at her uncertainly, but seemed to relax. “You’re sure?” he asked. 

“Yes,” she said, and it seemed natural – a contract, somehow – to kiss him. He put one arm around her, briefly, and kissed her back, then released her.

“I’m glad,” he said, although his expression was unreadable. “But find someone else for the spell.”

“Take the Demmy Slicer,” she insisted. “Does it feel different, now?”

He sat up and took the dagger from her cautiously, at her urging. Then he shook his head. “I never touched it before. It feels just like a dagger.”

“Now we need a Dementor,” she said. But she felt exhausted now, after her voyage through Draco’s mind. 

There had been no evil there, she realised. Just someone’s ordinary thoughts and impressions. They seemed totally innocent. Perhaps, she wondered, behind that locked door was everything that had made him a Death Eater.

She reached out to touch him. “Do… you want to see my thoughts, now?” she asked, timidly. “It’s seems fair…”

But she was relieved, all the same, when he shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it once more, and shook his head again.

“I saw nothing,” she said slowly, “Nothing bad,” she continued. “Nothing I shouldn’t have seen,” she added. “Nothing for you to be ashamed of.” She didn’t refer again to seeing him with Pansy, but perhaps her face showed that. His mouth quirked in amusement. 

“You didn’t see everything,” he said, his eyes mocking her now. “My evil acts are well hidden.”

“Let me see the rest,” she found herself saying. “I don’t think there’s anything…”

His face went hard. “No,” he said. “You’ve seen everything you need. And I’m tired now.”

“So when can we try this out?”

“Preferably,” said Draco, “When I’m as far away as humanly possible. Good night…”

Ginny told the Headmistress about the breakthrough, but McGonagall refused to budge. “If the Dementors come calling, I give you full permission to try. But you will _not_ contact that Goblin. You will _not_ summon Dementors here, or any other place of your choosing. I will not have lives – yours or anyone’s – risked on the chance that Draco Malfoy has correctly remembered something he heard under difficult circumstances a year ago… No, it’s out of the question… I want your word on this… Now, out of my sight!”

Michael Corner’s next tour de force was a whisper campaign against using the Room of Requirements to host Quidditch matches. Ginny had no evidence it came from him, but the rumours had his stamp, all the same.

“It’s a con,” said the voices. “The Room of Requirements is in Weasley’s pocket. She just tells it who’s going to win. Even when she lets her own side lose. Deliberately, just to keep control over them… We need to be outside again. Then we’ll get fair matches. Let’s see Gryffindor win when we can play outside!”

Badges began springing up on lapels everywhere. _A fair fight_ , the words said, over blue sky and clouds

McGonagall hit the roof when she heard about this. “This is a totally irresponsible campaign!” she stormed to the whole school at dinner. “You know – you all know full well - that the Dementors are a real threat to everyone’s safety!”

“Even with Weasley’s rhino there?” called a voice. It wasn’t Corner’s, but it might as well have been.

“You’re just giving yourselves an excuse for losing,” Ginny told Michael angrily when she saw him next. “You’re risking people’s lives, just for that?”

“Souls, Weasley, souls,” said Corner, with a cold smile. “And we’re not going to lose. Not if we get a fair match.”

“You’re _getting_ a fair match!” she yelled at him, her temper slipping once more. 

“Oh, no,” said Michael, his smile still in place. “I don’t think so. Not in _your_ Room of Requirements.”

“What’s he playing at?” Ginny ranted to Polly afterwards in the Gryffindor common room. “Does he want deaths on his conscience?”

“He doesn’t have one,” pointed out Polly. “But I think you’re right. He knows they’re going to lose. I saw him at our last practice, and he didn’t look pleased.”

And yet… The calls to hold the next match on the proper Quidditch pitch gained momentum. A game so important to almost the whole school was something too serious for sanity, it seemed. Squabbles and bullying broke out, particularly targeting Gryffindor. 

Cwenhild, unpleasantly, was the worst victim of this. She was beaten up, her face a bruised mess, along with another equally harmless Gryffindor first-year girl. The culprits remained unknown – they had used Peruvian Darkness Powder on their victims first – and Cwenhild spent several days in the hospital wing when she was needed for practices.

The day of the Ravenclaw-Gryffindor Quidditch dawned as grey and chilled as every other day had for months now, despite being in June. Cwenhild insisted she was fully recovered, and was annoyed with Ginny for accompanying her everywhere. 

“It wasn’t personal!” she said grumpily. “And what about Polly and the others? Shouldn’t you be looking after them?” But Ginny couldn’t be in two places at once, and had to put her dragon eggs in one nest. The mood in the school was still uncertain, and the prefects had their hands full keeping the peace between different factions.

Lunch was over, and the whole school was heading for the seventh floor, when there was shouting at the door into the Great Hall. 

“Help!” yelled the voice. “Someone help!”

McGonagall was talking to Ginny about match discipline, and turned towards the noise. “Who’s that?” she called. “Who’s calling?”

“Lucy Ainsworth, Professor,” called the voice. The crowd was clearing, and Ginny could see the girl - a Hufflepuff first-year - her face white and concerned. 

“Come here, child,” demanded McGonagall. “What are you shouting for?”

The girl came forward, uncertainly. She was breathless, and her eyes darted nervously between McGonagall and Ginny.

“There’s all these Centaurs in the For… Forbidden Forest, and they’re fighting, and someone was there, and one of them knocked her over!”

“ _What_? What were you doing in the Forbidden Forest?” demanded McGonagall. “And aren’t you meant to be in the hospital wing?”

Lucy was shaking her head in fear. “ _I_ wasn’t in the forest! I just went for a walk! Madame Pomfrey said I could leave, but I couldn’t eat anything, so I went to get some fresh air… I didn’t mean any harm…” She seemed about to dissolve into tears.

“Yes, yes, all right,” said the Headmistress, impatiently. “And who’s this someone? Did you recognise her?”

“I’ve seen her before,” the girl said. “She’s Em… Emma For…”

_“Emily Fawcett?”_

“Yes! I… I think so…”

“And centaurs are _fighting_?” demanded McGonagall. She looked angry and concerned.

“They were just shouting, at first,” said Lucy. “Three of them. Two centaurs and Emma… Emily. Shouting at each other. Then the two centaurs started fighting, and one of them… I think one of them kicked Emily, by mistake, and she fell down, and then all these other centaurs appeared, and they were fighting too…”

“I’ll go,” said Ginny, drawing her wand. 

“No!” said McGonagall. She was as white-faced as Lucy. “The staff will deal with this. Hagrid?” she called. “Where’s Hagrid? Professor Sprout, be so good as to track down Hagrid! We’ll meet him at the Forbidden Forest. Madam Hooch, it’s best you stay here, I think. The rest of the teachers with me! In the meantime I want every pupil in the Room of Requirements! That’s _your_ job, Ginny! Now go, and win that match!” She hurried from the Great Hall.

The noise was considerable, and it was hard for the prefects to restore silence and herd the entire school up the stairs towards the Room of Requirements.

But when they reached the seventh-floor landing, and Ginny silently spoke the words to open the Room of Requirements, nothing happened. The wall remained a wall. Angrily, Ginny repeated the words, and again, and again, trying not to listen to the titters and all-too audible remarks.

“It won’t open!” she hissed despairingly to Polly.

“Has someone bewitched it?” asked Polly, scanning the wall anxiously.

“Maybe,” said Ginny, with growing anger. “Or someone else is using it. We’ll have to postpone the match!”

Immediately there were mutters, which grew into louder voices. “No!” “No postponement!” “It’s a trick!” “You know you’re going to loooose!” “Play _now_!” “Outside!” “A fair fight!” “On the Quidditch Pitch!” “Yeah!” “Fair fight!”

The volume increased then, and the same cry came from many throats: “Fair fight! Fair fight!” Then loud boos came from the Gryffindors, and others as well.

Michael Corner was in front of her now, a twisted smile on his face. “Well, well,” he said. “Looks like we might get a fair fight after all!” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the chants.

“No!” Ginny snarled at him. “It’s not safe!”

“You can’t control this, Ginny,” he said. “Looks like you’ll have to give up your little advantage.”

“There IS no…!” Ginny began, but the chants grew ever louder. Madam Hooch was there then, demanding an explanation, and Ginny found it difficult to be heard over the hubbub.

“F _air fight! Fair fight!”_

“Fine,” said Madam Hooch angrily when Ginny described how she couldn’t get into the Room. “Let everyone lose their souls, then!” She spun around and shouted. “OK, everyone to the Quidditch Pitch!” She turned back to Ginny. There was anger in those fierce eyes. “We need your Patronus spellers! Are they ready?”

“I’ll… I’ll make sure,” Ginny said uncertainly.

“Leave that to me,” said Juliana, in Ginny’s ear, and then she was shouting for Dumbledore’s Army. It was as if the crowd was being stirred with a stick as everyone pressed downstairs, shouting to each other, chanting, pulling out wands.

“What about Draco?” asked Polly in her ear. “I’m not sure he’s up to this!”

Ginny wasn’t sure either. For the past few days, Draco had shown a strange combination of utter intransigence and near-nervous breakdown whenever she brought up the subject. She managed to catch his eye, as he lingered on the landing while the noisy crowd surged downstairs.

He didn’t let her speak, and shook his head with decision. “No,” he said, uncompromisingly. “You can’t make me do this. Find somebody else. Transfer the spell…”

“No! What if the spell doesn’t work any more? I’m not planning to kill you just to make sure it transfers!” 

But he shook his head again. “I’m not going to…”

“Where’s the Demmy Slicer?” she demanded. “Have you got it?”

He looked annoyed and resigned. “Yes,” he admitted. “But…”

She grabbed his arm. “Look, just be there, Draco! With the Slicer!” He still looked uncertain, and she almost had to drag him down the stairs and outside.

 _I’ll just have to rely on everyone’s Patronuses_ , she told herself. Two out of every five pupils could produce one now, but she didn’t know whether they could do so under a Dementor attack.

Most of all, she hoped the Dementors would stay away.

Even after the cheers and excitement, there were plenty of worried faces at the idea of braving the outside just for a house match. But there was a lifting of spirits at being outside again, even in the chilling cold, and everyone filed noisily into the stands.

Michael Corner kept them waiting. The entire Gryffindor team was already on the pitch when the Ravenclaws appeared. Not a typical Ravenclaw team, either: Instead of the usual geeks, they were a hulking group reminding Ginny of previous Slytherin teams. This or similar thoughts seemed to occur to the crowd of students in the stands, and there was a growing murmur amongst cheers for the Ravenclaw team.

“Mount your brooms!” called Madam Hooch.

But then the noise from the crowd lessened, and there was silence. Another figure had appeared on the pitch. No robe this time, and decorated entirely in Ravenclaw blue and bronze.

Again, it was mostly paint. The girl’s figure was entirely blue, and Ginny strained her eyes to see the lines of the girl’s swimsuit. A proud bronze raven was spread-eagled across her torso, the head brushing her throat. She walked confidently across the pitch towards the players.

“Miss Stansfield!” Madam Hooch shouted. “Get off the pitch!”

It was _Prudence_! The until-now bookish Ravenclaw prefect continued to parade across the pitch, ignoring Madam Hooch, and walked straight up to Michael Corner. She leaned over and kissed him, lengthily. Cheers and catcalls greeted this, but she merely waved, turned and walked towards the stand where the Ravenclaw crowd was grouped. Ginny could see now that Prudence’s back was painted with a pair of huge bronze wings, the tips of which reached her bottom. Someone helped her float up onto the stand, while the Ravenclaws cheered themselves hoarse.

Was Michael Corner dating _Prudence_ now? It seemed hugely unlikely, but it was hard to mistake her behaviour towards him. What about Angharad? Ginny could see her now, dressed in a cloak and robe, in the Slytherin stand, frozen like a statue. Was this news to her too?

“Wish we had a mascot,” said Euan, sadly.

“Well,” said Ruby, “We kinda have… Wait!” she called to Madam Hooch. She peeled off her crimson robe, standing astride her broom.

She was painted entirely in gold, even her face, which the team had somehow managed to miss until now. Her hair was untouched, but that colour wasn’t very different from her skin, Ginny realised. A large griffon decorated her back, and there were tiny red shapes on her breasts which seemed to be griffons as well.

“Ruby!” said Euan, in horror. “Are you wearing _anything_?”

“Can you tell?” Polly asked anxiously. “You’re not meant to be able to tell…”

“Keep your distance, kid,” Ruby said to Euan, severely. “And you, Andy.”

“Did you do this?” Ginny asked Polly in amazement. 

Polly shook her head. “Only some of it,” she admitted. “Like the straight gold parts. Aidan did the hard bits, ‘cos he’s the artist. Y’see, Emerald wanted to do this, after the last match, but…”

“GRYFFINDOR,” shouted Madam Hooch. “ARE WE READY TO START?”

“I thought we might get something like that from the opposition,” said Ruby to Ginny, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “Now let’s go and win this effing match,” she said. “Or I’m going to look like a total tosser, dressed like this… GRYFFINDOR!” she yelled.

The answering cheer was deafening, and the entire crowd, it seemed, was capering with joy. Ginny’s eyes sought Corner’s. He was standing astride his broom, and his eyes were filled with rage. An angry joy filled Ginny then, and she was screaming with the rest.

A deafening peal from Madam Hooch’s whistle, and the match had begun. The Golden Snitch, no longer cowed by the enclosing room, zoomed away from its restraint like a shooting star. 

It was a thrilling match, lit by flashes of inspired play by both teams. The slender golden-skinned figure of Ruby seemed to intimidate the opposition, and her catches were eye-opening. But Ginny’s hatred of Corner didn’t stop her nodding in admiration when he orchestrated an impressive play that resulted in a resounding goal. But Polly and Cwenhild were like two hands of a single mind as they carved through the opposition. 40:10 to Gryffindor.

There was no sign of the Golden Snitch. Ginny was scanning the heavens for it when the first sign of trouble appeared, with zero warning. Behind the Ravenclaw stand, a dark cloud arose. Not a raincloud, but a huge swarm of Dementors.

There was so much cheering as the two teams fought that Ginny’s screams couldn’t be heard at first, and then it was too late. The shouts turned to shrieks as the Dementors seemed to fall on the Ravenclaw spectators.

Ginny unleashed her Patronus, and to her delight it was still her rhinoceros. The silver animal charged into the middle of the stand, scattering the attackers. But the Dementors merely swooped onto a different stand, of mostly Slytherin, and her rhino could only be in one place at a time.

All around her, Patronuses were springing into life. She could see Polly’s greyhound bounding towards a cluster of Dementors that were dropping onto a group of Hufflepuffs. But the Patronuses were still losing. She had never seen so many Dementors.

“DRACO!” she was shouting now. “ _DRACO_!” Where was he? “DRACO!” Surely he could scare away some Dementors with the dagger, even if the Demenda Regis spell didn’t work?

There he was! She could see his blond hair, near the front of the Slytherin stands, but he was frozen, half-turning as if to flee, his face nearly as white as his hair. She could see the dagger in his hand, but it was as if he was trying to hide it.

“DRACO! DO IT!” She screamed. Surely now he’d act, with the cloud of Dementors spreading across the stand he was on. But he was a block of stone…

She could see another moving figure, running across the stand next to Slytherin’s, vaulting the gap - eight or more feet - and landing hard, almost on top of Draco. A dandelion-headed figure wrestled the dagger from Draco’s hand and ran at the dark cloud swarming over the Slytherins. The figure brought the dagger back over his head, and then he was stabbing downwards. And again. The air was full of that thudding sound she’d heard before - the alarm cry of the Dementors - and now she could see fragments of black spraying around the attacking figure. And again, and again. The spraying black seemed to be mixed with spouting white.

The remaining Dementors were fleeing. “NO!” she screamed. She summoned her Patronus, and the rhino was thundering around the cloud of black figures, and they were cowering, clumping together, and other Patronuses were attacking them too. And the figure with the dagger was like a butcher at work, his arms rising and falling, dispatching Dementor after Dementor.

Magically, the stand was clear of Dementors now. The spraying black was disappearing, and only a strange spiralling white was left. But there were plenty of other Dementors in the Hufflepuff stand, settling on new victims now, with little heed for the fate of their peers.

Dandelion-head was running now, away from the Hufflepuffs, confusingly, but then he was turning and running towards the cloud of Dementors in the next stand. And jumping the gap…

But he had to be tired by now, and his leap wasn’t far enough. He hit the wall of the Hufflepuff stand, his right arm, with the dagger, hooked over the edge, but then he was falling, dropping the dagger, and hitting the ground far below. “DAN…!” she shouted.

She could see another figure running in the same direction across the Slytherin stand, a figure with white hair, flying across the gap, and his longer legs took him straight into the Hufflepuff stand. He scooped up the dagger, and then he was falling on the cloud of Dementors, his arm stabbing and stabbing. The spraying black and white of the dying Dementors was all around him, in spiralling curtains, until there were no more Dementors in the stand. She could see scurrying figures lifting others, helping them to their feet, running down the stairs.

There were still plenty of Dementors across the pitch and the other stands, but she used her rhinoceros to drive the cloud of black away from their victims, towards Draco, and she was screaming at the other Patronus-makers to do the same. The pitch and the rest of the stands were clear of Dementors, while Draco dispatched Dementor after Dementor, until there were none left.

The white cloud was still above the pitch, even after the black spray had entirely gone. It seemed to split in two, and a smaller part was flying across the sky while the rest seemed to settle among them.

She dropped down to the ground between the Hufflepuff and Slytherin stands, and slid off her broom to run towards Abraham, who was still not moving. But when she reached him, she found he was awake and conscious, his face sheened in sweat. 

“I broke my leg,” he said, gasping with pain. “Sorry…”

“ _Sorry_?” she said in amazement. “What are you saying _sorry_ for? You saved the day, Dan!”

Abraham started to say something, then changed his mind. “OK,” he said. “Dan, then…”

Something strange was happening. The white cloud was continuing to fall, and coalescing into shapes. Figures, some huge, some small. Human figures, and Giants and Goblins among them. Like Patronuses, except the Patronuses had gone now. “Ghosts,” she said to herself in wonder. Ghosts, left behind by the dead Dementors. The souls they’d taken, that they’d kept…

The ghost nearest her, a middle-aged woman, approached Abraham. “We saw what you did,” she said. “You were so brave!” And there was a rising murmur around her, from the other bemused ghosts.

Another miracle: The mist was dispersing, and the sky was turning blue, a colour no-one had seen for months, and the sun was there, hot on her face now, as the Dementors’ victims greeted their rescuers. The sunlight shone resplendently on a slight, golden figure standing in the middle of the pitch: Ruby Balsam, in her Gryffindor gold. Behind her, Aidan Okofor was reverently putting her red robe around her shoulders, and she was turning towards him, and looking intently up at him.

Ginny’s smile slipped when she saw McGonagall striding towards her, face set, eyes glittering with anger.

“I’m… I’m sorry, Headmistress,” Ginny said, realising, faltering with shame. “We…”

 _“Who did this?”_ demanded the Headmistress.

“We couldn’t get into the Room of Requirements…”

“I’m not referring to the match! We’ve been _had_ , Ginny!”

“Had?”

“There was no centaur fight! There were no centaurs! No Emily! We tracked down Miss Fawcett, _eventually,_ in the Astronomy tower! She had been nowhere near the Forbidden Forest, and Podmore backed her up!”

“ _Dippy_ _Podmore_?” said Ginny in amazement. “With _Emily_?”

“More to the point,” said McGonagall, wrathfully, “Madame Pomfrey confirms that Lucy Ainsworth never left the hospital wing all day! That Miss Ainsworth was confined to bed with a badly sprained ankle, and couldn’t have walked to the _door_ , never mind the Forbidden Forest!”

“Polyjuice…” began Ginny, light dawning. 

“Probably,” said McGonagall, grimly. “This was a concerted effort. Professor Flitwick is interviewing the Room of Requirements at the moment, to see who nobbled the room before the match!”

“This was Michael Corner…” started Ginny, but the Headmistress cut her off, impatiently. 

“Leave the investigation to me,” said McGonagall, annoyed. “We’ll get to the bottom of this!”


	26. The Metal Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

“So who won the match?” asked Abraham, wincing as Madam Pomfrey carefully probed his newly-repaired leg.

“Er…” said Ginny. She was still bemused by all that had happened.

“Nobody did,” said Cwenhild, standing next to Abraham’s bed. To his surprise, she leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Not at Quidditch, anyway. We were winning when the Dementors arrived to spoil things.”

“40:10 to us,” said Polly, on the other side of the bed. “As I remember.” She turned to Madam Pomfrey, who was wielding her wand over Abraham’s leg. “Is it true, Madam Pomfrey?” she asked. “About the Hogsmeade victims coming back to life?”

Madam Pomfrey glanced up briefly. “Most of them,” she agreed. “They’re whole again. The rest… Well, we’ll have to wait for the rest of the Dementors to let them go.”

“ _Let them go_?” queried Polly in surprise. “Die, you mean.”

“I’m not sure Dementors are ever alive,” said Madam Pomfrey. “Now, Mr Southey, how does that feel?”

“Better, thanks,” said Abraham. “Except my arms are still really sore. How are the other guy’s?”

“Draco’s?” answered Ginny, startled into responding. “He won’t say. He’s still apologising.”

“I think it’s rather cute,” said Polly, happily. “These apologising heroes. Sorry you’re missing the party, Dan!”

“That’s OK,” said Southey, uncertainly.

“Got to go!” said Polly. “See you in the Great Hall!”

“Did anyone keep score on the Dementors?” asked Cwenhild, as Polly pulled her away. “Did Dan get more than him?”

“The name’s Abraham,” said Southey, with dignity. “And I wasn’t counting.”

Her evening hospital duty visit done, Ginny went in search of Draco. She had things to say to him, she decided. Only she didn’t know what, yet. 

He wasn’t skulking in the library, as she’d expected. Or at the celebration in the Great Hall, less surprisingly. And according to Dominic, shouting over the noise there, he wasn’t in Slytherin either.

She eventually tracked him down in, of all places, Firenze’s classroom. He was sitting against a tree in the newly-returned moonlight, staring into nothing. He lifted his head to look at her when she entered, but there was no life in his expression.

He turned his head away as she approached. “Gryffindor save the day,” he said. “Again.”

“You as well,” she said, matter-of-factly. 

“I was terrified,” he said. “Really scared.”

“I was scared too,” she said, honestly. She was standing above him now, her arms folded.

“Didn’t stop you,” he said. “Did it?”

“So you’re in the right house,” she tried. “And Dan’s in the right house. _He_ thought he should have been in Slytherin, but he’s been a proper hero twice, now. So maybe he’s too stupid to be afraid of Dementors.”

“They’re terrifying,” said Draco, quietly. “Even when I saw them dissolve like that. I wasn’t breathing.”

“But you did it,” said Ginny. “You couldn’t have been more brave. And you did something you saw Dan fail at. You weren’t scared then. That’s real courage.”

He shrugged, which annoyed her.

“What’s so great about being a hero?” she asked then. “Plenty of dead heroes around the place. We need cunning, too…” He still wouldn’t look at her. “And you’re cunning enough to catch me,” she said, her voice suddenly unsteady, embarrassing her. 

He looked up at her, then away again. “No,” he said. 

“Don’t tell me what I think,” said Ginny. “I’ve had the Chosen One after me, and yet here I am, talking to you.”

“You’ll be back together,” Draco said. “Soon enough. You belong, the pair of you.”

“Because he’s Gryffindor? Is that what you’re saying?”

“You fought alongside him…”

“And he didn’t care. Not really. I’m just Ron’s little sister, to him. He was just a teeny bit jealous when I started going out with other boys. Like Michael Corner, Merlin forgive me.”

“But you love him. You always did. I remember…” He dried.

“Remember what?”

“In Flourish and Blotts, when my… father was saying things, you shouted at him to leave Potter alone.”

That startled Ginny. “That’s a long time ago.”

“I remember,” repeated Draco.

“Get your wand out,” said Ginny.

“My wand?” he asked, curiously. “Why?”

“ _Legilimens_ ,” she said. It was hard to breathe now. “Try it on me.”

“I can’t…”

“I’m asking you to. I want you to see what I’m thinking. And what other people see in you.”

“I can’t…”

“I’ll help,” she said. She held out her hand.

“No,” he said, flatly.

“Do as you’re told,” she said, equally categorically.

He looked at her, for an age, then put his hand in hers. Getting him to his feet nearly pulled her over, and then she was looking up at him. “Wand,” she prompted.

He took it out, reluctantly. “I’m not sure about this,” he said.

“Do I need to remind you of the spell?” she asked, tartly.

He raised his wand. “ _Legilimens_ ,” he said, hoarsely.

It was a strange sensation, totally unlike looking into Draco’s mind. Suddenly she was like an echo chamber. She could hear her own words. “I’ll help,” she was saying. “Try it on me… You’re cunning enough to catch me…”

But then the clouds were back, and she was seeing through them, as they shifted once more, into Draco’s mind. 

His father’s portrait…

Pansy: “Do you like that?” Her breath on him…

A very young Harry, saying “I think I can tell the right sort for myself…”

Crabbe screaming in the flames…

That metal door once more, with the handprint. She reached her hand out to it, and she was right, the handprint was the same size as her own hand, but when she touched it, the door was spiralling into nothing, and she could see bright daylight beyond. And endless figures… 

A small, young figure, with long red hair. Frowning at him, in puzzlement.

The same figure, holding a cauldron almost as big as her, stepping forward to shout defiance at his father.

The red hair flying, riding a broom, a fierce look in her eyes, older now, as she captured a Quaffle and swept past him.

The same girl, slashing a Bat Bogey hex out of the air, flinging him backwards.

The same redhead, thinner, tired out, despondent, slumped next to him in the Hog’s Head.

The same girl, asleep in bed, her bare shoulder uncovered.

On a broom now, triumphant in her confidence, as she launched a huge silver rhinoceros at a crowd of Dementors.

Stepping across the room to him, standing above him…

Peeling off her robe, then his, then in his arms, kissing him passionately…

She cried out then, and she was back in the forest room, looking up at him. He was fully clothed, and so was she. _What did I just see?_ She had to step towards him. 

“I didn’t know,” she said, her heart beating so hard. 

Without warning, he turned away from her. She reached her hand out to touch him, in fear. He recoiled. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Draco?”

“That was a mistake,” he said, his voice muffled.

“Showing me what you think?” she asked in worried puzzlement. “How can that be wrong?”

He shook his head. “Not that.” He laughed, mirthlessly. “So stupid,” he said, regretfully.

“ _What’s_ stupid?” she demanded angrily. “ _Me_? Am _I_ stupid? What is this?” There’d been nothing in his memory to be afraid of. Nothing… 

“You still love him,” he said, eventually, over his shoulder. “Don’t you?”

“No…”

“I could see it.”

“He drives me nuts!” she said in annoyance. “He either ignores me or patronises me!”

“I shouldn’t have done it,” he said, unhappily. “You can’t unknow something.”

She dragged at his shoulder, pulling him around. “What’s wrong? What did you see?” she demanded. “We split up! Harry and me! It’s over…”

“No, it’s not!” He was shouting. “I _saw_! I saw you arguing, screaming at him. Both of you angry, but…” He dragged his hands free in frustration, and turned away. In a few unsteady steps he was at the door, and she had to run to catch him. He was opening the door when she reached him, but she shouldered him aside, and used both hands to slam the door. She turned, leaned against it, and faced him.

“I love _you_ …” she said, in desperation.

“No you don’t! I’m just… Just a bit of excitement. Just… a bad boy. Just _lust_. Which would be OK, if I hadn’t seen what you think about Potter!”

“Look at me!” she yelled. “ _You’re_ what I want!” she shouted in despair. “What I need!”

“You want _him_ ,” said Draco. He was turning his eyes away, angering her further. “And I can’t…”

“ _Why not_?” she screamed.

He turned back to her then, and he was looking at her, as she wanted to be looked at. _He has such very soft eyes, doesn’t he? When the mocking look has gone._

“I’m still afraid of him,” he said simply. “I won’t get between you. I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“You’re a _coward_!”

“Yes,” he said. “You knew that. And I…” He turned away. He wouldn’t even look at her… “And I’m not brave enough to risk everything. Not for a fling. Maybe if you loved me…”

“ _I do love you!_ ”

“No, you don’t.”

She wanted to hit him then. Or Bat Bogey him. And scream. Or cry.

“I need to go,” he said.

“Wait,” she said. She opened the door, reached for his hand, and pulled him into the corridor. “There’s something I need to show you.”


	27. The Chamber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

Her hand was still wrapped around his as she led him towards the Entrance Hall.

“No,” he said, when they reached the doors to the Great Hall, and he saw where they were. He tried to pull away.

“It’s time you took the credit you deserve,” she said. “You saved a lot of people, and everyone will want to thank you…”

Except there was nobody there. The celebrations must be over, she realised, and everyone had gone to bed. 

_Now what do I do?_ She felt weighed down by such enormous anticlimax.

“OK,” she said, in grudging frustration. “Tomorrow, then.”

He didn’t reply, and in the silence a strange noise behind her made her turn. A flapping sound, as if a bird was trapped there. The noise was coming from the Roll of Honour: Pages was impatiently flapping to and fro. She’d prefer not to find out what devilry Michael Corner had hatched now, but the sooner she knew…

“Maybe it’s gone wrong,” she suggested to Draco as she went to see. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t look,” said Draco, worriedly.

The book was flapping between a blank page and a filled one. No, two blank pages. Except…

Except that one of the blank page wasn’t totally blank. There was a faint image there, in a similar layout to the other pages, with a photograph and words, but it was hard to see, particularly when the book kept flapping to the other two pages. The photograph on the filled-in page only showed a grey murk.

The name at the top of the filled-in page said Michael Corner.

Ginny realised this photograph was showing turbid water - she could see the swirls – and there was a darker man-like shape visible in the greyness. She could just make out the head, and the arms seemed to be out at the sides. But with the pages flapping restlessly back and forth, it was hard to see more.

“Draco,” she said uncertainly. “Come and look…”

The ink on the near-blank page seemed to be darker now. She could sense Draco on her shoulder, as she tried to puzzle out the name.

“The photographs look similar,” he said. Even now, his voice in her ear made her shiver, but she could see what he meant. The paler image had a photograph too, but it was almost white-on-white. Yet it also seemed to show a figure, arms outstretched, although there was more definition in the paler image – a more distinct shape. This figure was a girl.

“Who’s Prudence S-something?” asked Draco.

“ _Prudence_?” asked Ginny, in alarm. “Stansfield. Ravenclaw prefect. Friend of mine. Are you saying…?”

They had to wait a frustratingly long time while the book flicked to the entirely blank page, and then the Michael Corner page, and finally back to the palely-printed page.

Draco’s fingers brushed the title of the page. “Yes,” he said, “I can read the name.” And with his help so could she.

“But she’s not dead! Nor’s Michael! Has the book gone wrong?”

“Look,” he said. His fingers were on the pale photograph. “Can you see that line? Across the picture? Below the line, the picture looks more like _this_ photo,” he said as the book flapped to the page for Michael Corner. “Above, it’s clearer…”

“What does that mean?”

“I think it’s water,” he said. “They’re in rising water. Corner is totally covered, but the girl isn’t yet.”

“But where are they?” she asked, in horror.

“No idea,” said Draco. “In the lake, maybe?”

The page flapped to the blank page, and then back to Prudence’s page. “Look!” said Ginny, realising. “You can see… something…” There were lines around the girl’s figure now. 

The page flapped officiously back to Michael’s page, where there was still no detail apart from the dark grey figure, and it seemed an age before it flapped twice more.

“Oh, no,” said Ginny, fearfully. The photograph was clearer now. The girl’s skin was blue and bronze. “She’s still wearing her Ravenclaw colours,” Ginny said, jerkily. “It must be her…”

“What about the lines?” asked Draco.

The lines were clearer as well. They were carvings. A huge face. She gasped, suddenly.

“What?”

“I know… I know where she is,” she said. She tried to keep the shake out of her voice. “Oh, no…”

“Where?”

“Chamber of Secrets,” said Ginny, fearfully. “She’s tied to the statue of the monkey god in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Are you sure?”

“I nearly died in there,” Ginny said, unsteadily. “Of course I’m sure!”

“But wasn’t it sealed off?”

“I don’t know,” said Ginny. “We need to go…”

She grabbed his arm and spun. They were in the girls’ toilets that led to the Chamber of Secrets. She’d avoided this room for many years: She would have preferred to forget that episode of her life entirely, and she tried to avoid Moaning Myrtle whenever possible.

But the room was flooded again, shin deep. There was a continuous roar from one of the cubicles, and water was pouring out from under the door, but the door was immovable. 

Moaning Myrtle was sitting on the cistern in the cubicle next to the flooding one. “My,” she said, annoyed. “Quite a party we’re having.” Myrtle had never been cheerful, exactly, but Ginny couldn’t remember her this depressed before. “What’s _he_ doing here?” Myrtle asked. She avoided looking at Draco, but gave Ginny gloomy sidelong glances.

“We’re looking for Prudence,” said Ginny, impatiently. “And Michael Corner. Have you seen them?”

“Might have missed them in the crowd,” said Myrtle, grumpily.

“Can we get into the Chamber of Secrets?” asked Draco.

Myrtle seemed to forget she wasn’t talking to him. “If you’re a fish,” she said gloomily.

Ginny and Draco waded across to the sinks. The snake-marked sink had dropped into the floor, and water was pouring down into the hole that led to the Chamber of Secrets.

“Who opened it, Myrtle?” asked Ginny, loudly, over the noise of the threshing water. It had been Voldemort last time. Was there another Heir of Slytherin in the school? Myrtle merely shrugged, moodily. 

“We can’t go down the pipe,” shouted Draco. “We’d drown!” 

“I’ll Apparate!”

“No!” he yelled. “You’ll still drown!”

“Prudence is down there!”

“What if it’s a trick?” he demanded. “What if Corner is still alive?”

“He’s dead! He’s in the book…”

Draco shook his head. “He put the spell on the book,” he pointed out. “Maybe he’s just done a new spell.”

“Don’t mind me,” said Myrtle. “I just live here.”

Ginny ignored her. “That’s crazy,” she said shaking her head. “Makes no sense…”

“It makes more sense than going down there!”

But she had to know. She could see Draco was terrified at the idea, so she didn’t reach out to him as she twisted.

She’d imagined the Chamber of Secrets as it had been, all those years ago. The reality now was utterly different. She was under water, water that was tumbling her over and over, and she couldn’t breathe. She caught a glimpse of the rock of the ceiling, and then she was under water again. At least the chamber wasn’t full of water, yet… She tried to picture the monkey god carving, and she was twisting…

She was on rock now, taking heaving breaths and coughing. She nearly lost her balance as she tried to straighten, and was scrabbling to prevent herself from sliding down the statue, back into the thrashing water. She managed to stop, somehow, and shakily got to her hands and knees, panting from exertion and lack of oxygen. _Now_ , she said to herself, _grab Prudence and go_.

She leaned gingerly over the edge. As she’d hoped, the girl was there, against the rock of the monkey god below her, arms outstretched. She was wearing the same blue and bronze paint she’d flaunted at the Quidditch match, and seemed to be unconscious. The water was up to her chest, now. Hadn’t it been up to her waist, in the photograph? They didn’t have long. 

“Well, well,” called a familiar voice. “What a surprise.”

Ginny jerked her head up in shock. Across the chamber, and the churning water, was another rock face, and bound to it, like Prudence, was Angharad. She was further up the rock than Prudence, and the water was up to her thighs.

“Angharad!” Ginny shouted. “Did Michael do this to you? Wait…” How was she going to reach them both, without being swept away by the water?

“Well, no,” said Angharad, calmly. “Michael’s down there.” She nodded towards the monkey god. “Below Prudence. He shouted a lot. Made lots of promises, and threats, but the water got to him eventually. Which he deserved…”

Ginny stared at her aghast. “Angharad? No, you couldn’t have…” 

“I Stunned Prudence after that. She was getting very boring, crying all the time, asking what she’d done to me… What a stupid question. She took Michael away from me.”

“But that was _Michael_!” said Ginny urgently. “Prudence wasn’t like that!”

“She loved it,” said Angharad. “Stealing him from me. Being the centre of attention. I had the eyes of the school on me, at the last match. I had Michael. Then _she_ took everything. Everything!”

“Angharad, let’s get out of here…”

“I’m not leaving,” said Angharad. “This is the price of defeat, for me too. And I deserve it, even more than these two.”

“Then don’t kill Prudence! Help me save her!”

“Help how? I can’t escape from here. I made sure. Permanent sticking charm, onto solid rock. I’ll die here…. Go now. I won’t kill you. I was hoping Draco would come here, in your place. I wanted to kill _him_ , for taking you from me. But he’s too much of a coward, isn’t he? You’re welcome to him. Are all men cowards? Michael was, when death came for him.”

“Not all of them…” Ginny said weakly. She needed a plan.

“Harry, you mean? But you didn’t want him. Perhaps you deserve to die, for deserting him. Come on, Ginny, pick a wall near me. Let the Chamber keep its Secrets!”

“Angharad, you’re not a murderer!” Ginny shouted. “You don’t want to do this!” She still had time to save Prudence. And save Angharad, whatever she said. But she had no idea how. Perhaps she could shatter the rock, and not harm them? Then find them in the churning water and Apparate out of here?

“Of course I’m a murderer,” said Angharad. “I thought you’d guessed.”

“Guessed?” Ginny asked fearfully. “Guessed what?”

“My parents,” said Angharad, simply. “I took you to see their house.”

“But Death Eaters…”

“There were no Death Eaters,” said Angharad, matter-of-factly. “My parents forced me to come home from Hogwarts. And leave Orla behind.”

“Orla? Who’s Orla?”

“Orla was my friend,” said Angharad. “My lover. My everything. She stayed at Hogwarts, while I was trapped at home. And in the battle, she died, and I wasn’t there to save her. Did you see her there?”

“No,” said Ginny, but then she was remembering the dying girl whose hand she’d held. Could that have been Orla? 

“We were meant to be together,” said Angharad. “But my parents found out. My father read Orla’s letter, even though I’d hidden it… They didn’t even want me in the house when they took me home. I had to live in that hut. Like I was an animal. So one day I went back there, and begged to be let back in. Even though I knew he wouldn’t let me. My mother was there too, behind him, but she wouldn’t stand up to him. So they both had to die.”

“You killed them both?” Ginny said in horror.

“I killed _him_ ,” Angharad said. “ _Avada Kedavra_. But it was too quick. He should have suffered more. He should have known what he did to me, the way Michael knew before he died. But my father killed my mother. His _ego_ killed her… As soon as he was dead, the house was gone, and she was inside it. So _he_ did that, not me. Maybe she didn’t deserve to die, for just being weak, for letting him hurt me. But I did free her from him.”

Ginny, horrified by Angharad’s words and her matter-of-fact tone, twitched galvanically when someone said “Psst!” in her ear. She nearly slid off the monkey god entirely. Her jerk to save herself seemed to hurt every muscle.

It wasn’t Draco, as she’d hoped, but Myrtle. “Psst!” the ghost said again.

“ _What_?” she hissed back in annoyance. This wasn’t the time…

“What’s that?” Angharad called suspiciously. “Who are you talking to?”

“It’s just a rat,” Ginny called back. Myrtle’s expression of hurt anger was comical.

Angharad laughed, shortly. “Then it’ll be dead soon,” she said coldly. “The Chamber kills rats.”

“ _He_ says if I help you, you’ll help me,” whispered Myrtle.

‘He’ had to be Draco, Ginny realised. “Help how?” she whispered.

“I’ll show you! Jump in the water!” hissed Myrtle. Ginny looked down fearfully at the churning water, closer now. Prudence’s shoulders were awash.

“That’s not a rat,” said Angharad, annoyed. “Who’s there?”

“ _Jump_!”

Ginny stood and jumped, before she had time for sensible thought. The water was colder this time, she was sure, and she was buffeted as before, but she made herself open her eyes. She could see a white shape below her that was Myrtle. The ghost was beckoning at her, urgently. Ginny used her arms to swim downwards, towards Myrtle. Her legs didn’t seem to be doing anything useful. _And I should have taken a deeper breath_ , she told herself.

Myrtle was on the floor of the Chamber, way below the surface of the water. It was a huge effort to swim downwards, and she didn’t think she was going to make it. Myrtle was gesturing, and she could now see what the ghost was pointing to. There was something dark and rectangular in the floor, six feet or more in length and nearly that in width. Myrtle was gesturing, using her whole arm. Meaning what? She repeated the gesture – arm over shoulder, bring it down rapidly, arm outstretched. Myrtle wanted her to cast a spell. Which spell? She put her hand in her wand pocket and felt in desperation for her wand. Which was hers, and which was Emerald’s?

She was running out of oxygen, and was having to breathe out before her lungs burst. The bubbles distracted her. She pointed her wand at the black rectangle.

 _Harry’s trademark spell is_ Expelliarmus, she thought to herself. _Mine_ …

 _Confringo!_ she shouted in her head, as resolutely as she could.

An angry red line seemed to boil the water in front of her, and struck the rectangle, which shattered. Fragments were flying past her, and then the world was turning upside down, and again. The rectangle was now a gaping hole, and she was being sucked towards it. She twisted with more Decision and Determination than ever before, and she was sliding down the monkey god’s head once more, and scrabbling to save herself, panting painfully.

“What have you done?” screamed Angharad.

The surface of the water was churning and dipping now, and a centre was appearing. The whirlpool was huge, and Ginny tightened her grip automatically. If she fell off now…

“No!” shouted Angharad in fury. Then she was screaming and yelling, trying to break herself away from the rockface, but the permanent sticking charm was implacable. Her sanity seemed to leave her, and she was shrieking nonsense as she tried to thrash herself free. 

The water level was dropping fast. Ginny could see there was still a cascade of water pouring into the Chamber at the far end, from the room far above, but the torrent headed for the hole she had blasted, and the depth of water was barely knee-deep. 

She Apparated down to the floor, was nearly swept from her feet by the flow, and waded over to where Prudence was still hanging. 

Angharad hadn’t lied: Michael Corner was pinned to the monkey god statue below Prudence, at ground level, and he was very dead, his skin near white, his eyes staring, his mouth gaping. Ginny avoided looking at him, and commanded her shaking limbs to climb the slippery rock next to him so she could reach Prudence. She was still breathing, to Ginny’s relief. She decided not to revive her yet, until she’d decided how she was going to free her. Perhaps Professor McGonagall, or Madam Pomfrey, would have ideas on that score. It was even harder to climb down the rock without falling, but her shaky legs eventually found the swirling pool of water, which was barely calf-deep now.

Angharad was still screaming and struggling. Ginny brought out her wand once more, tired now, and used it to Stun Angharad, so she sagged against the rockface. Whether Stunning her was kindness to Angharad or herself she couldn’t decide. Angharad was in her Slytherin paint, she realised. A statement? Had she, a Ravenclaw prefect, been the Heir of Slytherin? Or had that been Michael Corner? Corner seemed a more likely candidate.

She stood, dripping, and looked around the room, at each figure in turn.

 _If Draco hadn’t refused to come_ , she realised, _and hadn’t bullied Moaning Myrtle into helping_ , _they’d both be dead. Not just Corner._

_Thanks, Draco…_

She jumped when she realised Moaning Myrtle was standing beside her.

“I _helped_ ,” said Myrtle, in awe of herself, her staring eyes fixing Ginny through her thick glasses.

“You helped a lot,” agreed Ginny, tiredly. She wanted to sit down, but not in the stream of water covering the floor.

“Now help me,” said Myrtle. “Like you promised.”

“Help how?”

Myrtle moved away from her, studying the still-dripping Chamber of Secrets. “I used to watch him here, you know,” she said over her shoulder.

“Who?” asked Ginny, puzzled. “Michael Corner?”

Myrtle shook her head. “No. _Him_. Tom Riddle. He used to spend hours down here. He didn’t sleep much, you know.”

“Really?” asked Ginny, struggling to be polite. Where was this leading?

“He hated me watching. I hated him, for killing me, but I was afraid, too, so I kept out of sight.”

“Afraid? But you were dead…” Was that tactless? 

Myrtle didn’t seem to notice. “Afraid of what he did to other people, I suppose. Not killing them. I wouldn’t have minded that. They might have been company, but…” She turned back towards Ginny and studied her, not in a usual mad, Moaning Myrtle way, but evaluating, musing. “I watched you, you know, when you were down here last time. I was scared of _you,_ too. You didn’t seem to know what you were doing…”

“I was being controlled,” said Ginny, horribly disturbed by this.

“When he died,” said Myrtle, “When Harry killed him… Last year… I thought I’d go too. I thought there’d be no more reason for me to stay here. After fifty years… But I’m still here. I don’t want to be here for another fifty years… I was afraid of _him_ too.” She nodded nervously towards Michael Corner’s body.

“Corner? Why?”

“He liked to hurt people,” said Myrtle. “And he could control this room.”

“You mean he could talk Parseltongue?” Ginny asked incredulously. “Was he the Heir…?”

“I heard him talking to _her_ ,” said Myrtle, gesturing quickly towards Angharad’s unconscious form. “He said he found it in a book. How to talk to snakes. He was desperate to get in here.”

“I didn’t realise he was like that,” said Ginny, numbly.

“So now help me,” pleaded Myrtle.

“I’d like to…” Ginny started helplessly.

Myrtle stepped closer, suddenly, her expression sulky and hurt. “You promised!”

“Yes, but help _how_?”

Myrtle stiffened, as if she was afraid now, but she still stared at Ginny, mesmerized. “I talk to the other ghosts, you know. Most of them are older than me. They don’t want to talk to a _girl_.” She spat the term. “But I hear what they say. They’re saying lots at the moment. They’re saying you have some new magic!”

“New…?”

“You can destroy Dementors!” said Myrtle, excitedly.

“Yes,” agreed Ginny. “But how…?”

“And you set free the souls they’d taken!” said Myrtle. “Don’t you see?”

“No…”

“The dagger… _touches_ … our world!” said Myrtle. “The ghost world! We share that world with the Dementors! I stay away from them, I’m safe here… You can’t kill a Dementor with an ordinary weapon, because Dementors belong in _this_ world. But the dagger lives in our world, too.” 

Light was dawning on Ginny. “And if it can kill Dementors…”

“It can reach ghosts, too!” said Myrtle, breathlessly. “You freed the other souls,” she said. “Don’t you see?”

“But I didn’t kill them…”

Myrtle made an impatient, dismissive gesture. “You weren’t trying to. But you can kill me!”

“I don’t know,” said Ginny, scared now. “Perhaps I can’t…”

“You _promised_ ,” said Myrtle. “I helped you save lives.” Her face was crumpling now, from the new radiant Myrtle back to the petulant, moaning ghost. Myrtle was moving restlessly, not noticing the stream at her feet, circling Ginny now, who was too tired - too wet, too cold - to turn and keep her in sight. 

“ _Save_ lives,” protested Ginny. “Not…” 

“You promised!”

The dagger was in Ginny’s hand now.

“I’ve lived enough,” said Myrtle in her ear. “I want to go. Perhaps I’ll go _on_ , too, like the others. But I don’t want to be here. Not any more. Please…”

Ginny took a deep breath, turned, and, before she could hesitate, plunged the dagger blade straight into Myrtle’s ghostly chest. 

Myrtle’s expression was an ecstatic mix of agony and triumph. Like the figure from the diary, all those years ago, beams of blinding light were now escaping from her, as she sank to her knees. Then, in an explosion of white, she was gone.


	28. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is Ginny Weasley's tale. This book - the first in this series - begins at the Battle for Hogwarts, and covers Ginny's final year at school, with no Harry, Hermione or Ron to help her. Caught between the Ministry, Dementors, Goblins and Giants - and game animals brought back to life - she uncovers one of Voldemort's most potent weapons, while her personal life grows ever more complex. An old flame reappears, determined to cause trouble...

“Girls are given superior brains to boys,” said McGonagall angrily, “So they can prevent the opposite sex leading them into trouble. Why then, pray, do so many young ladies refuse to use those brains?”

She was including Ginny in this generalisation, Ginny realised. “I don’t know, Headmistress,” she answered, diplomatically.

They were standing next to Prudence Stansfield’s bed, and Angharad’s bed was beyond that. Both girls were face down. It was a disturbing sight. Separating them from the rock they’d been attached to had torn the flesh from their backs, as well as from the backs of their legs and arms.

“Sorry, Headmistress,” said Prudence, her voice muffled in her pillow.

“I hope it hurts,” said McGonagall.

“Plenty,” said Prudence. Angharad was being kept unconscious, because her sanity seemed to have been permanently affected.

“I’m sure they’ll soon be as right as rain,” said Madam Pomfrey, slightly shocked. “The treatment’s working already…”

“Don’t hurry on my account,” said McGonagall. “It’s not as if I need prefects to run a school.”

Madam Pomfrey, out of other words, could only tut.

“I hear you’ve found a new use for that dagger of yours,” McGonagall said to Ginny. “Sir Nicholas came to see me.”

“Oh...”

“I’ll keep the ghost contingent away from you a wee while longer,” said McGonagall. “I worry that the Bloody Baron will be wanting your services soon, which will leave us with Peeves. We’ll need to do something. And some of these new arrivals don’t seem to know how to behave.”

“They’re _ghosts_ ,” said Madam Pomfrey. “Bathrooms look like ordinary rooms to them, I’m sure.”

“Particularly _Giant_ ghosts,” suggested Ginny, entertained despite her exhaustion.

“You have a lot to answer for, Miss Weasley,” said McGonagall, severely.

“Sorry, Headmistress,” said Ginny.

“Let me say this,” added McGonagall. “Ye were very lucky.”

“I know.”

“And even in his best years here, Potter never managed quite the mayhem you seemed to have created since he’s gone.”

“Sorry, Headmistress.”

“I should go,” put in Madam Pomfrey. “All these sunburn cases…”

“My fault as well,” said Ginny.

“Don’t get above yourself,” said McGonagall, severely. “I did start to wonder,” she added, “Why I’d selected you to be Head Girl.”

“I didn’t understand either,” admitted Ginny.

“Didn’t you?” McGonagall turned to look at her, an eyebrow raised. _Here it comes_ , thought Ginny. _Recrimination time._

“I was considerably disturbed at the beginning of last year,” said McGonagall, “When it became clear that the prefects for the year were becoming the Inquisitorial Squad once more. And my concerns were even greater when you teamed up with Mr Longbottom and Miss Lovegood with the avowed intent, it seemed, of causing as much trouble for those in charge as humanly possible. It was going to be a very bloody battle, in my opinion. Although my job has nominally been that of education, it has _mostly_ been about protecting the pupils of this school, from harm. Harm, I may say, mostly from themselves, but also from outside agencies. The idea that the school would be swayed by two impractical dreamers and a spitfire filled me with concern.”

“Oh, thanks,” said Ginny indignantly.

“But I was wrong, as it turned out. I was delighted to see that the three of you organised yourselves and the pupils extraordinarily well. Your skills at collecting information about the intentions and whereabouts of the Carows, for example, were masterful, and only matched by the way you used that information, to disrupt, and more importantly, to manoeuvre your troops out of harm’s way as soon as retribution was about to strike.”

“But Neville was tortured!” put in Madam Pomfrey. “And poor Terry Boot…”

“As I was about to add,” continued McGonagall, frostily, “The situation changed markedly when Luna was snatched and Ginny here was forced to go into hiding. Neville was compelled to run things on his own, and it was soon clear that the well-oiled machine was not his. And it certainly wasn’t Luna’s. It had to be yours, Miss Weasley. Almost entirely yours. As soon as you failed to return, the school was in pieces, communications broke down, and the Carows prevailed. It was a very unpleasant time for us all.”

“I wanted to come back,” said Ginny. “And Luna…”

McGonagall overrode her. “I was very sorry not to see Miss Lovegood return this year. But the well-oiled machine _is_ back, Miss Weasley, and has been in full working order all year, and for that I thank you.”

“Oh,” said Ginny weakly. “But what about…?” She found she couldn’t say any more.

“Now,” continued Professor McGonagall in a more business-like manner, “There’s someone to see you. In my study.” She reached out, gripped Ginny’s arm and spun her finger impatiently. Ginny had no choice but to twist up to the corridor outside McGonagall’s study.

“Who is it?” Ginny asked. “Am I in trouble?”

“Probably,” McGonagall said dryly. “Don’t let yourself be browbeaten.” The gargoyle leapt out of the way, and the Headmistress gestured Ginny up the stairs. Unnervingly, she didn’t follow her.

Ginny’s heart was beating when she reached the top. Who…?

It was Harry. He was leaning against McGonagall’s desk, looking annoyed.

“Finally,” he said. “You’ve been busy, I’m told.”

“Life does exist outside Potter,” she said, equally irritated. 

“So I’ve heard,” he replied. He was silent for some seconds. “McGonagall told me about Draco,” he said. “And you.”

“ _What_?” she exploded. “It’s none of her business! Or yours! Is _that_ why you’re here? Come to give orders, or something?”

“No,” he said, putting his hands up to pacify her. That had the reverse effect, of course. “Listen…”

“I’m still waiting for _your_ apology,” she snapped.

He frowned. “My apology? About what?”

“About the _Daily Prophet_!”

His face cleared. “That article…? Look, you _know_ I’d never say any of that! Well, OK, I did say ‘no comment’, but the rest was total invention.” He put his hands up in surrender. “And OK, I did say that we should be protecting Giants and Goblins and the others. That’s all! Not that we should be suppressing them! Nothing like that!”

Ginny stepped towards him, angrily. “ _Did you think I thought that?”_ she snarled.“I _know_ you! I _know_ you’d never say anything of the sort! But _you_ don’t seem to know _me_! Do you _know_ why I’m angry? Hmm? Because you effing _left_ it there! You _didn’t_ stand up anywhere and say you’d been misquoted, or that the _Daily Prophet_ was telling lies! Just so they could get into the Ministry’s good books! You _didn’t_ turn up at the Wizengamot and make a scene! You didn’t do _anything_! Don’t you think _that_ demands an apology?”

He looked like a landed fish. “I… What’s the point?”

“ _What’s the_ …?? You’re letting… you’re _conspiring_ in the Goblins and Giants getting treated as slaves!” 

“No, I’m not…!”

“ _Who_ _else_ is going to stand up against the Ministry? Who’s the only person in this country with a voice _outside_ the Ministry?”

“I…”

“You’re the bravest man I know, Potter,” she said, overriding him. “You’ve faced death endless times. But you won’t face up to the Ministry, when everyone needs you to!”

“But Shacklebolt…”

“Shacklebolt’s not the problem,” she snapped. “You know that. _He’s_ not behind this, is he? So who is?”

“I don’t know…”

“Well, let’s find out! You won’t face up to the Ministry, and you won’t even face up to my _mother_! What kind of hero are you? Potter, you need to fix your attitude. Because if you can’t handle the Ministry, and you can’t handle my mother, you’re going to have no chance handling _me_!”

She would have laughed at Harry’s expression, in any other circumstance. “Oh, and say hi to Alicia for me,” she added.

“Look, Alicia and I are just…”

“Don’t say any more on that subject, Potter,” Ginny said, loudly. “Because it’s either going to be a lie or too much information. I know you, Harry. I know you really well. That photograph – your face in that photograph – told me everything I needed to know.”

Eventually he spoke. “She’s still upset about Fred,” he said. “Did you know about the two of them?”

“No,” Ginny admitted. “I hadn’t heard that. So it’s about sympathy, is it? Careful with that, Harry. It’s not a good basis for a relationship. So I’ve heard.”

He stared at her in surprise. “But isn’t that what’s between you and Malfoy? McGonagall says so. You want to look after him, she says. And something about his parents.”

“It’s not just that,” said Ginny, annoyed. “And he’s scared witless of you, if you must know. He won’t come near me. So, thanks.”

There was a lengthy silence, while Ginny felt her face grow hot.

“You’ve changed,” he said eventually. 

“People do that,” she managed. “Harry, I need to talk to you…”

He looked puzzled. “We are talking…”

“About… about Emerald… And Arjun… And…”

She expected him to launch into self-righteous anger. To lecture her. To list everything she’d done wrong. Instead, he just sighed.

She found she couldn’t look at him then, or the portraits of the headmasters around the walls, judging her. She fixed her eyes on one of McGonagall’s timetables, watched as a scrawled note wriggled itself from one box to the next. “I… I’m sorry,” she said. “I was trying to…” She couldn’t go on. She couldn’t justify herself.

“How many people have _I_ killed?” he asked gently. “Starting with my parents?”

“You can’t blame yourself for them!” she objected. But she had to keep her eyes away from him.

“Where does the guilt stop, Ginny?”

“I should have been more careful…” she insisted.

“Too many people watch things happen, and don’t try to stop them,” said Harry. “Does that make them innocent?”

She shook her head, definitely.

“And that’s not you,” he said. “As you reminded me.”

The note moved in irritation, further across the timetable. She could read it now: _Tidy office_ , it said.

“No,” she said, eventually. Somehow his words killed the pain she’d been feeling for weeks now. Somehow she felt suddenly better. She took a deep breath and turned towards him, and now she could meet his eyes.

“So, what next?” he asked, curious.

“Don’t know,” said Ginny. “Dawlish has poured Dragon dung over my career. But don’t worry about me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Worry about Dawlish, in other words?” he asked.

“Possibly,” said Ginny, amused at last. “I haven’t decided. I meant to ask you: What are you doing in Poland? Apart from Alicia, I mean?”

He shook his head. “Can’t say. Which reminds me: I have got to go.” 

He pulled out his wand, and suddenly the room seemed very crowded: They were now sharing the office with a large, glowing white stag, which equally suddenly disappeared. While she was wondering what had happened, he stepped forward, kissed her briefly, hurried over to the door and left. She could hear his steps running down the stairs.

Ginny felt entirely lost, then. She’d plenty more she wanted to say to him. Her thoughts were echoing in her head. She needed to sit down…

She heard steps on the stairs. She thought it might be Harry, back again for the rest of their argument, but it was McGonagall. 

The Headmistress’s eyebrows rose when she saw her. “Well,” she said. “Is this what you’re planning, now?”

Ginny realised she was sitting in McGonagall’s chair, and rose quickly, suddenly guilty and embarrassed. “Sorry, Headmistress,” she said.

“No matter,” said McGonagall. “Actually, it suits you. And it appears I’m cast as your messenger nowadays. But I can have my chair back, as there’s someone downstairs to see you.”

“Who am I in trouble with now?” Ginny demanded in annoyance. She stomped towards the stairs.

“Out of my sight!” called McGonagall. “Both of you!”

 _Both_ …?

There was a tall figure standing next to the gargoyle at the bottom of the stairs. Both Draco and the gargoyle looked annoyed and resentful.

“What’s wrong?” Ginny asked. 

“A Patronus came to see me with a message,” said Draco. “A stag.”

She was instantly angry. “ _Harry_? Did he _threaten_ you? I’ll kick his arse…!” 

She was about to twist to the main gate, still unsure where she’d go after that, but Draco had her arm. His free hand was making annoying calming gestures.

“He said…” began Draco, then hesitated, and let go of her arm.

“He said _what_?”

“He said… Look after her…”

Ginny felt a spurt of rage. “Look after…? I don’t need looking after! I _will_ kick his arse…” But then she froze, realising, and turned her head to look at him. She stepped up to him. “Well, then… Look after me,” she told him, placing her hands on his chest.

He shook his head and pushed himself backwards. “He just meant…”

“OK,” she said. “Come with?” She held out her hand to him.

“Where are you going?”

“Forbidden Forest,” she said. “Find me a centaur.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” said Draco in alarm. “Emily never… Corner was just…”

“Remember your _orders_ , Malfoy! Now where was I? Maybe _two_ centaurs. Destination, Determination, Decision…”

But then his arms were tight around her, crushing her, and he was kissing her, and she was kissing him back, fiercely.

He broke away, breathlessly, looking sideways at the gargoyle, who was staring at them sourly, one stone eyebrow raised. “Not here,” he said, but she had to ignore that and kiss him once more.

Then they were twisting, and she was dizzy. She found she was leaning against a stone wall, which puzzled her, but it was more important to be reaching her mouth up to Draco’s, and kissing him.

Equally suddenly the stone wall was gone, and she fell backwards, taking Draco with her. She thudded into something wooden, and the wood was moving, and she was tumbling, until Draco rescued her, his arms around her.

She looked over her shoulder in surprise. They were in the doorway of a strange room. It seemed to be a luxurious bedroom – she could see a huge four-poster bed, paintings, bookshelves, and, curiously, a wooden rocking horse, staring at them with a mad expression. The corridor outside she did recognise: The seventh-floor landing.

She stepped back, pulling Draco into the room, and reached out to slam the door. 

“Where are we?” he asked in bemusement.

“Room of Requirements,” she said. “Seems the right place to me.” And she dragged his head towards her once more, and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for coming with - and sticking with! I hope you enjoyed Demmy Slicer. There is another book in the works - provisionally titled Ginny Weasley and the Hidden Knight - which I hope to start releasing soon. Wish me luck...
> 
> Alan


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